Category Archives: Sermons

A Sermon for the Great Vigil of Easter
April 3, 2021

Text: Romans 6:3-11

Let none fear death, for the death of the Saviour 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.

I would be lying if I told you that I had some deep, theological insight into the mysteries of Holy Week and the events surrounding Jesus’ passion, death, and resurrection. But, the truth, dear friends, is that the liturgies of Holy Week, including Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter, preach themselves in a very profound way, not only through the words we speak and the hymns we sing but also through the experience of walking with Christ from the upper room where he said goodbye to his friends to the rock-hewn tomb in which he was placed after his death on the cross.

Think about all we’ve experienced with Jesus over the past three days:

The water washing over our feet.
The Bread and the Wine, broken and poured out in the Eucharist.
The darkness of the church.
The silence.
The crown of thorns.
The hard wood of the Cross.
The newly kindled fire.
The water of Baptism.
The first, “Alleluia!”

All of these are signs that the Holy Spirit is in motion, stirring up in us that which the world cannot give, a hope that can no longer be contained.

The liturgies of Holy Week and Easter engage our senses and bid us to enter fully into the mystery of joy and suffering as we participate with Christ in his death and resurrection.

Notice that I used the word, “participate.” This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but if it is, I ask you the same question that St. Paul asked in his letter to the first Christians in Rome: “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?”

Through the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, we are buried with Christ in his death and raised to newness of life, an affirmation of faith that we proclaim boldly, especially on this night as we celebrate the Passover of the Lord and welcome a new member into the Body of Christ, Evelyn Rae Thibodeau.

“This is the night, 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.”

“This is the night,” according to one author, “that is like day, the dawn of reconciliation, peace, and the forgiveness of sin.”

This is the night, when we are once again reminded that not even the shadow of death can separate us from the love of God and that darkness always gives way to the light.

In the sixteenth chapter of John’s Gospel, just before Jesus is arrested and put on trial for sedition against Rome, Jesus tells his disciples that he’ll be with them only a little while longer and that they’ll soon grieve and mourn for him. Knowing that his arrest is imminent, Jesus says to them, “Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.”

“Now is your time of grief,” Jesus says, “but I will see you again and you will rejoice…”

Rejoice. It’s the first word of the ancient Easter hymn, the Exsultet, proclaimed each year at the beginning of the Great Vigil of Easter.

“Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…”
“Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth…”
“Rejoice and be glad now, Mother Church…”

Rejoice. Our great Easter proclamation, that death and sin no longer have dominion over us, that grief and suffering have given way to joy.

Over the past year, as we’ve endured this terrible pandemic, I’ve thought a lot about how “sadness and joy,” as Henri Nouwen once wrote, “kiss each other at every moment” and how this informs our understanding of Christian discipleship. We’re formed as disciples of Jesus through our participation in his death and resurrection, and I’m convinced that this is something we’re continually called to do. I’m convinced that, every time we die to self and give up our lives as a living sacrifice, we grow more and more into the full stature of Christ. We continue to experience the resurrected life that God desires for each of us.

For many Christians, one of the most poignant and moving traditions of Lent and Holy Week is participating in The Way of the Cross. This year at Holy Spirit, we observed this ancient prayer practice on Holy Wednesday, as participants walked with Christ along the path of sorrows as he endured the agony of his passion and death.

At each of the fourteen stations, we paused to contemplate not only the sadness and the despair but also the joy and new life that is promised to all who follow in our Lord’s footsteps, an example of how joy and sorrow are so intimately connected in the life of a Christian. 

Even now, as we celebrate the feast of our Lord’s resurrection, in the midst of Easter joy, the world continues to revolve, and people everywhere continue to suffer.

Easter joy isn’t a cure for the brokenness of our world, and it isn’t a goal to reach, as if everything else we experience during Holy Week is simply an obstacle to overcome.

The great joy that we experience at Easter is hope for the world—a sign that all is not lost, that God is still present in our lives, working in us and through us. Our great joy at Easter is the hope that, in the fullness of time, God’s dream of heaven on earth will finally be realized.

But, until that day comes, let us continue to serve God by offering ourselves as instruments of God’s love and mercy to this broken and suffering world, and let us rejoice without ceasing in the saving work of God in Christ. Amen.

A Sermon for Good Friday
April 2, 2021

Text: Psalm 69:1-21

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

From the sixty-ninth psalm:

Save me, O God,
for the waters have come up to my neck. 
I sink in deep mire,
where there is no foothold;
I have come into deep waters,
and the flood sweeps over me. 
I am weary with my crying;
my throat is parched.
My eyes grow dim
with waiting for my God.

I don’t think we can hear the opening verses of Psalm 69 without considering the dangers of one of God’s most precious gifts—the gift of water.

Water is a source of life.
It sustains us when we’re thirsty.
It provides us with the means to wash ourselves when we’re dirty.
It causes the fruits of the earth to grow and flourish.
It cools our bodies in hot, sweltering weather.

But, water can also be dangerous.

It can be a source of destruction and death. All you have to do is ask someone who’s lived through a  flash flood or a major hurricane, and they’ll tell you.

No wonder it’s used to symbolize both death and new life in the sacrament of Holy Baptism, our initiation into the Body of Christ.

No wonder the image of water is so deeply connected to the final days of Holy Week as we draw closer to Jesus and become participants in his death and resurrection.

Last night, in the liturgy for Maundy Thursday, water was used in the washing of feet, a symbol of the new commandment that Jesus gave to his disciples before he was handed over to those who would persecute him.  Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Jesus says to us, “Unless you allow yourselves to be washed in the love of God, you have no way of knowing what it means to serve God.”

Tomorrow night, on the eve of Easter, water will be used as a symbol of new life. After we kindle the new fire and process into the darkened nave of the church, we’ll once again hear the ancient story of Israel’s deliverance from bondage in Egypt as God’s chosen people were led through the Red Sea on dry land.  Water will also be used to baptize those being received into the Body of Christ and to remind us all of the vows that were made at our own baptism.

But, before we can get to the Great Vigil of Easter, we must observe this solemn day. On this day, there is no water. On this day, the absence of water is used to illustrate the agony that our Lord experienced on the cross. The wellspring has run dry. The font is empty. Like Jesus, we long for water to quench our thirst. We long with Jesus for God’s Kingdom to finally be fulfilled.

Jesus said while hanging on the cross, “I am thirsty.”

Good Friday is our most explicit reminder that the Kingdom of God—God’s dream of redemption for this cruel and sinful world—is not yet fulfilled.

How many of our brothers and sisters in the world struggle each day to make ends meet, unsure of where their next meal will come from, unsure of where they’ll lay their head for the night, unsure of how they’ll provide necessities for their children? How many people live with the fear and constant threat of oppression, violence, and discrimination? How many people around the world wonder whether each new day will be their last?

I ask these questions because on this day, perhaps more than any other day throughout the year, we remember those who’ve been forgotten. We remember those who’ve been overlooked because of the sins of the world, because of the sins we’ve committed, both known and unknown.

I ask these questions because Good Friday is the day when we walk with Christ in his suffering as he journeys to the cross. Today is the day when we offer up our whole selves—our broken and thirsty selves—with the one who was crucified, the one who sacrificed himself so that we might be delivered from the power of sin and death and brought into new and everlasting life.

In our day to day lives, we often lose sight of what it is that we thirst for. Good Friday is the day when we remember. It’s an opportunity to ask for God’s forgiveness as we leave our sins at the foot of the cross.

God knows that we struggle. God knows that we aren’t perfect and that we’re going to get it wrong from time to time. But, God also knows that we’re on a journey to become more like Jesus.

Perhaps, Mary Oliver illustrates this best in her poem, “Thirst.”

Another morning and I wake with thirst
for the goodness I do not have. I walk
out to the pond and all the way God has
given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord,
I was never a quick scholar but sulked
and hunched over my books past the hour
and the bell; grant me, in your mercy,
a little more time. Love for the earth
and love for you are having such a long
conversation in my heart. Who knows what
will finally happen or where I will be sent,
yet already I have given a great many things
away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,
except the prayers which, with this thirst,
I am slowy learning.

Oh Lord, be patient with us. In your mercy, grant us a little more time.

Love for the earth and love for you are having such long conversations in our hearts. Daily, we struggle to live our lives as you would have us live.

As we thirst for your Kingdom, accept the prayers and supplications that we offer before you for your whole creation, and in our moments of weakness and transgression, look with favor upon us, we humbly pray.  Amen.

A Sermon for Maundy Thursday
April 1, 2021

Text: John 13:1-17, 31b-35

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Years ago, when I was a student at Auburn University, I attended St. Dunstan’s—the Episcopal student center on campus. One of my favorite services to attend at St. Dunstan’s was our weekly Folk Mass, which was held on Tuesdays at 5:30 in the evening.

This service was very different than our normal, Sunday evening service at St. Dunstan’s. For example, there were no fancy vestments. The priest usually just wore a clergy shirt and a stole, something very simple. We didn’t all sit in rows of chairs, facing the altar at the front of the church. Instead, we set up at altar table in the center of the Nave, with groups of chairs surrounding it on each side so that everyone could clearly see what was happening. There was no organ music, and there were no hymns from the hymnal, either. In place of these were guitars and songs from the Alleluia 2 songbook. Some of you may be familiar with these songs, especially if you’ve been to Camp McDowell or attended a Cursillo weekend.

Some of my favorite spiritual songs come from the Alleluia 2 songbook, songs like “Here I Am, Lord” and “They’ll Know We are Christians by our Love” and “May the Road Rise with You.” I have such fond memories of these songs, and every time I get to sing them, it brings me back to places like St. Dunstan’s and Camp McDowell—sacred places that’ve formed me in my life in Christ.

There’s another song from the Alleluia 2 songbook that’s always meant a great deal to me. It’s called “The Servant Song,” and every time I read our passage from tonight’s Gospel reading, I’m reminded of the lyrics.

The first verse goes like this:

Won’t you let me be your servant.
Let me be as Christ to you.
Pray that I may have the grace
To let you be my servant, too.

It’s the last part of that verse that causes me to stop and think every time I sing it. “Pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant, too.”

It’s hard to let others serve us, isn’t it? It’s hard, especially when we don’t have to do anything in return. I think most of us would probably agree that we’d much rather serve others than allow ourselves to be served. We’d much rather be like Jesus in tonight’s Gospel lesson from John, who gets up from the dinner table after supper, ties a towel around his waist, and begins to wash the feet of his disciples—an act of lowly service normally reserved for women and household slaves in the time of Jesus. It’s one of the final things Jesus will do before he’s arrested later in the evening and handed over to Roman guards.

We’d much rather be the one washing feet than having our own feet washed. To be served as Jesus served his disciples, without anything expected in return, requires a certain amount of vulnerability, of letting go of our need for control, and a willingness to accept the fact that we are loved for who we are, exactly how God made us.

But, that’s easier said than done. We spend so much of our time and energy trying to convince ourselves that we don’t deserve to be loved in such a way, that we don’t deserve to be loved and cared for in the way that Jesus demonstrates to his disciples.

The exchange between Jesus and Peter, in tonight’s Gospel lesson, is a good example of what I’m talking about. When it’s Peter’s turn to have his feet washed by Jesus, Peter looks at him, astonished, and asks, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” He can’t believe that Jesus—his Lord and master—would do something normally done for him by a servant. He can’t believe that Jesus would get down on his own two knees, roll up his sleeves, and wash the dirt and grime from his feet. Jesus tells him, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter responds adamantly, “You will never wash my feet.” But, Jesus says to him, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” 

In other words, Jesus says to Peter, “Unless you learn what it means to be served—unless you know what it feels like to be loved unconditionally, you’ll never understand the ministry to which I’m calling you as my disciple.”

Peter doesn’t see himself as worthy of such a lowly and humble act of service by Jesus. His reluctance to be served in such a way is similar, I think, to the way many of us respond in similar situations.

Think about it for a moment. How many of us politely refuse when someone offers to serve us? I’ll be the first person to admit it. When asked if someone can do something for us, how many of us respond with something along the lines of, “Oh, no thanks! I’ve got it!” or “No, don’t worry about it! I can do it myself!” We need to be in control, don’t we? We’d much rather handle things ourselves than allow someone else to handle them for us. We’d much rather bend down and wash our own feet than allow another person to do it.

What we fail to recognize, though, is that, by denying others the opportunity to serve us, we’re limiting ourselves and our ability to learn more about the love of God in Christ Jesus. When we deny others the opportunity to serve us, we’re limiting our ability to draw closer to Jesus and to learn more about what it means to be his disciple.

That’s really what this night is all about—drawing closer to Jesus, like his disciples did on that final night in the upper room.

During the service for Maundy Thursday, it’s a tradition in the Episcopal Church to include the ritual washing of feet, not only as an act of remembrance but also as an act of participation in the servant ministry of Christ. We do it as a way to remember and acknowledge who we are as followers of Jesus so that we can go out and be ready to wash the feet of those who need to be loved and cared for the most.

In just a moment, I’m going to invite those of you who would like to participate to come up in front of the altar and have your feet washed. You’ll also have the opportunity to wash the feet of the person who washed yours. If you don’t feel comfortable doing it, that’s okay. It isn’t required that you participate, but I want to encourage you to give it a try, especially if you’ve never done it before.

By washing each other’s feet and taking the time to serve one another, we grow in our discipleship and carry with us the commandment that Jesus left with his disciples: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Resist the idea, dear friends, that you’re unworthy of being loved as Christ loves you. You are worthy, and you are loved. Resist the idea that you need to do everything on your own and have no need to be loved and served by others. There is a need. It’s how we grow more and more into the image and likeness of the God who made us.

In the words of “The Servant Song,”

 Won’t you let me be your servant.
Let me be as Christ to you.
Pray that I may have the grace
To let you be my servant, too.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Feast of the Resurrection: Easter Day
April 4, 2021

Text: John 20:1-18

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Life was quite different last Easter, wasn’t it? This time last year, rather than sitting in church on Easter morning, ready to celebrate the glory of our Lord’s resurrection, my family and I sat on the couch in our living room, watching a live broadcast of the Easter service from the Washington National Cathedral. The Most Rev. Michael Curry, Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, preached a lovely and timely sermon while the Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde, Bishop of Washington, celebrated the Eucharist. Our family watched the live-streamed 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! 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 other family members over for the weekend to help us celebrate the holiday, but since times were so uncertain a year ago and there was no possibility yet for a vaccine, we decided to “play it safe” and not take any risks. So, our family celebrated Easter alone last year, as so many families did. It was just the four of us.

As you might recall, the weather was awful that day with heavy rain and thunderstorms, which meant that we couldn’t even go outside and enjoy an Easter egg hunt in our front yard. But, some things remained the same, and we weren’t going to let a global pandemic and thunderstorms prevent us from enjoying the day. The Easter Bunny still showed up, leaving gifts and surprises for the kids. We still enjoyed a delicious meal around the dinner table and enjoyed being together. And, most importantly, we still celebrated Easter with shouts of, “Alleluia,” giving thanks to God for the gift of new life we’ve been given through our Lord’s death and resurrection.

Yes, Easter was quite different a year ago, 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 here at church and leading services throughout the week that were hopefully meaningful and comforting. 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 I’ve carried with me from that time was a conversation I had with Jude a few days before Easter, on Good Friday. His teacher had given him an assignment. She told him to choose any book he would like, read it, and then answer some questions about the book. 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?” Jude carefully thought about it for a moment, and then, without hesitating, 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 upset, 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 first had to sacrifice himself. Jesus had to endure much suffering and die on the cross in order to be raised back up again.

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 can’t blame Jude for wanting to change the story. It’s difficult to read. 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 endured, 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 can 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. I think that’s why the church is typically 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 the suffering servant 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 giving up our lives in the sacrament of Baptism, 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.

This year, it’s impossible for me to hear the story of that first Easter Day and not immediately think about all we’ve been through over the past year with the pandemic. Last Easter, there’s no way we could’ve known what was coming. There’s no way we could’ve known that, one year into the pandemic, we would still be wearing masks, staying socially distant, and limiting the number of people we can seat in church. There’s no way we could’ve known at the time that so many lives would be lost before all of this was over. We’ve lost so much already. We’ve lost jobs. We’ve lost valuable time with family and friends. We’ve lost loved ones. We’ve had to give up so many things that make life worth living. And yet, if we know anything about the joy of Easter, we know that God has been with us every step of the way and that God will be with us until the very end. If we know anything about the joy of Easter, we know that death has been defeated, once and for all, and that nothing—not even a global pandemic—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Like the disciples who fled from Jesus and went into hiding after he was arrested, we know what it feels like to be scared and alone. We’ve experienced it firsthand throughout this past year, every time we turned on the news and every time we were told to shelter-in-place at home. Like the disciples, who sat and waited after Jesus’ death, uncertain about what the future may hold, we know what it feels like to sit and wait with the fear of uncertainty. In some ways, we’re still waiting as this pandemic drags on.

But, unlike Jesus’ disciples, we have the benefit of knowing what happens on the third day.

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 and that love lives again, then we have no reason to doubt that God is with us, even as we continue to endure the suffering of this present moment. 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. Say it with me, and say it like you mean it. Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 20:40 mark.

A Meditation for Wednesday in Holy Week
March 31, 2021

Text: John 13:21-32

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. 

I have a confession to make, one that might seem controversial to most people. I actually feel kind of sorry for Judas Iscariot. I know what you might be thinking. “How could you feel sorry for the man who betrayed Jesus?” But, hear me out for a moment.

The Gospels clearly state that Judas was a thief. He carried the common purse and often stole money from Jesus and the other disciples, money that probably would’ve been used to help the poor and needy.

I know that Judas wasn’t someone you’d look to as the model disciple. Like we heard on Monday in our Gospel lesson from John, Judas criticized Mary of Bethany for the loving act of devotion she showed toward Jesus when she anointed his feet with oil, preparing him burial.

And yet, despite all these things, Judas Iscariot was chosen by Jesus to be one of the twelve apostles. Think about it. He was chosen by Jesus to travel alongside him in his ministry, to learn from him, and to spread the Good News to the people of Galilee that the Kingdom of God has come near. Like Simon Peter and his brother, Andrew, and James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Judas was chosen for a reason. Out of all the people Jesus could’ve called, he chose Judas—a person who was willing to trade Jesus’ life for thirty pieces of silver.

It’s often said that God doesn’t call the equipped. God equips the called. God calls the most unprepared, unqualified, and unexpected people to do God’s work, and we see examples of that all throughout the Scriptures. Judas is just one more example.

I think the most tragic part of Judas’ story isn’t the fact that he betrayed Jesus. It’s the fact that he didn’t get to experience reconciliation and forgiveness, at least not in his earthly life. We learn in the Gospel of Matthew that Judas was so consumed with guilt over his betrayal of Jesus that he took his own life. He never got to experience the resurrected Christ or to hear Jesus speak the words, “I forgive you.”

I suppose the real reason I feel kind of sorry for Judas is because his name has become synonymous with betrayal. Yes, he betrayed Jesus in one of the worst ways imaginable, but then again, so did the other apostles. In Jesus’ moment of need—in the moment he needed his friends the most—they all fled and hid away, afraid that they would suffer the same fate as their teacher. Yes, Judas betrayed his friend, but then again, all of us are guilty of betraying Jesus. Every time we turn our back on someone in need of help. Every time we refuse to hear the cries of the oppressed and downtrodden. Every time we forget that each of us is made in God’s image and worthy of love and respect, we betray Jesus.

The Good News, dear friends, is that God is always ready to forgive us. No matter how far we’ve fallen. No matter our betrayal. No matter our refusal to follow in the way of love. God is ready to forgive. On this Holy Wednesday, may we see clearly our need to be forgiven, and may God grant us the strength and wisdom to be faithful in our calling. Amen.

A Meditation for Tuesday in Holy Week
March 30, 2021

Text: John 12:20-36

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. 

The Gospel lesson appointed for Holy Tuesday takes place soon after Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. His presence in the city poses a threat to the chief priests and religious leaders, who’ve already begun to plot Jesus’ death. Jesus knows that his time on earth is running short, but rather than hiding from what’s about to happen or trying to change the outcome, he spends his final days and hours doing what he’s always done—teaching others and showing them what it truly means to love.

In our lesson today from John’s Gospel, Jesus says to his disciples, Andrew and Philip, “Very truly, I tell you, 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. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”

It’s a paradox of the Christian faith that, in order to gain the abundant life that God desires for us, in order to bear good fruit for God’s Kingdom, we have to be willing to give up our selves. We have to be willing to go to the cross with Jesus, to be buried with Christ in his death and raised to new life in his resurrection. This is why Holy Week is such an important time in the life of the Church. These sacred days invite us to walk with Christ in his final hours and to be active participants in the story of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Holy Week isn’t just something we do once a year to remind ourselves about what happens to Jesus. We already know the story. No, Holy Week is something we experience in a very personal and meaningful way, and if we allow it, the experience will transform us and breathe new life into our relationship with God.

But, in order for that to happen, we have to be willing to let go of the tight grip we have on our own lives and our constant need for control. We have to put our trust in God, knowing that God has the power to take a single grain of wheat and transform it into good fruit. Self-giving, sacrificial love is the way of Jesus and the path to eternal life with God.

So, my question for you today—the question I invite you to consider as our journey through Holy Week continues—is this: How is God calling you to give up your life in order to bear good fruit for God’s Kingdom? What needs to die in order for you to truly live? Amen.

A Meditation for Monday in Holy Week
March 29, 2021

Text: John 12:1-11

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

In our Gospel reading appointed for Holy Monday, we hear the story of Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, anointing the feet of Jesus with perfume made of pure nard, a type of fragrant oil that was very expensive in the time of Jesus. In the story, soon after Mary anoints Jesus’ feet, she’s chastised by Judas Iscariot for wasting the perfume on Jesus when it could’ve been sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor. Considering the fact that, at the time, one denarius equaled an entire day’s worth of work for the common laborer, three hundred denarii was a lot of money. But, the writer of John’s Gospel is quick to point out that the reason for Judas’ criticism of Mary isn’t because he actually cared for the poor. It was because Judas carried the common purse and was a thief.

Mary’s actions are praised by Jesus, not because he seeks special attention or treatment, but because of Mary’s generous outpouring of love. He knows the reason why she’s anointing his feet. She’s preparing his body for burial. She knows what Jesus is about to go through. This is her way of giving to Jesus something of herself to show him how much she cares.

When I read this passage from John, I’m often reminded of how easy it is for us to be critical of others when we think we know what’s best or when we think we have all the right answers. Judas, for example, thought Mary was being wasteful by using the perfume to anoint Jesus’ feet. He didn’t see it for what it really was—an act of love and devotion. All he could see was another missed opportunity to take more for himself.

This Gospel lesson invites us to think about the ways we express our love for God and each other. God doesn’t call us simply to love. God calls us to love abundantly by giving up all we have, our whole selves, in order to love and serve others. The way of Jesus is the way of self-giving, sacrificial love. It’s the way of the Cross, the way of life and peace with God.

Yes, the expensive perfume that Mary buys and uses to anoint Jesus’ feet could’ve been used in other ways. It could’ve been sold and the money given to the poor, as Judas suggested. Or, it could’ve been saved and used sparingly over time. But, Mary doesn’t use just a little bit of the perfume when she anoints Jesus’ feet. She uses all of it, the entire pint. The perfume she breaks open and pours out represents everything she has to give, her whole self. She gives it all to honor Jesus, the one who will go to the cross and sacrifice his life for the life of the world.

On this Monday in Holy Week, as our journey with Christ continues, I invite you to consider the example of Mary of Bethany. How is God calling you to give of yourself and to love others abundantly? Like the costly perfume that Mary brings to Jesus’ feet, what are you willing to give up and pour out in order to show your love and devotion to Jesus? Amen.

A Sermon for Palm Sunday
March 28, 2021

Text: Mark 14:1-15:47

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and 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 and parts that are spoken responsively, as a call and response between the priest and the congregation. The word “liturgy” literally means, “the work of the people.” It’s work that all of us are called to do in the service of God, and it’s foundational to who we are as Episcopalians.

For example, if I say, “The Lord be with you,” you already know exactly what to do, don’t you? You don’t even need to look down at your bulletin to know what to say. Let’s give it a try.

The Lord be with you. And also with you.

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

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

That’s exactly right. Thank you for proving 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 Christ. These words have deep 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 Episcopal Church of the Nativity in Dothan, Alabama, our priest taught the congregation a new call and response prayer in one of her Sunday morning 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. Eventually, I came to discover that this particular call and response is often used by our Christian brothers and sisters in the African American community.

It’s very simple. 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.

Great job. The reason why I’m sharing this simple prayer with you is because I want you to carry it with you, 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 prayer 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 and bear witness to the beautiful parts as well as the excruciating parts.

Say it with me.

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 ourselves have 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 and knows what it means to suffer, 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 ends, 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. 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.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 32:42 mark.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 14, 2021

Text: John 3:14-21

I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Do you remember what life was like before the pandemic, before our lives were turned upside down and the world completely changed? I do. I remember what it was like. Though, I have to admit that, in some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.

I know that, before the pandemic, we didn’t have to worry so much about going out in public and being in large groups of people. We took for granted the ability to go wherever we wanted without giving much thought to whether or not we’d get sick or infect others with an unknown virus.

I know that we didn’t wear masks wherever we went, and we didn’t concern ourselves with standing six feet apart from strangers.

I know that we didn’t worry about rushing to the grocery store at the drop of a hat for fear of running out of food or hand sanitizer or toilet paper.

I know that we didn’t have to worry about whether or not our loved ones would have to be alone in the hospital or in a nursing home.

I know that we used to shake hands with people we just met as a sign of respect and hospitality. I know that we used to give hugs when we “passed the Peace” in Church and when we said goodbye after the service was over. I know that we used to enjoy meals together in the Parish Hall. I know that we used to sing hymns and kneel together at this altar rail and receive the Body and Blood of Christ every Sunday morning without any concern at all.

I know all these things, and yet, they feel like a distant memory.

Our lives have changed in so many ways over the past year, and I think we’ve only just begun to consider the long-term effects this virus will have on us. We’ve only just begun to think about what our lives are going to be like once we return to some sense of normalcy. I think we can all agree that, moving forward, many things are going to be different than the way they were before the pandemic.

I had some time to reflect on all of this during the past week as we marked the one-year anniversary. It’s been one year since the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic. It’s been one year since I received that first e-mail from Bishop Kee, announcing that all public worship services and gatherings at the church would have be suspended.

How naive I was, in the beginning, to think that all of this was going to blow over in a matter of weeks. How naive we all were, looking back to March of last year, to think that none of what we’ve experienced over the past twelve months was ever a possibility.

Yet, here we are, one year later. Over half a million people have died in our country as a result of the virus, including a member of our own parish, Paul Clausmeyer—a beloved friend and father. We know others who’ve died as well—friends, family members, co-workers, and loved ones—all lost, but not forgotten. This virus has taken a toll far worse than any of us could’ve predicted or imagined.

We’ve endured much suffering, and while we still have a ways to go before we can take off our masks for the last time and resume many of the things we enjoyed before the pandemic, we’re beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Vaccinations are being developed and distributed all over the world, and eventually, all of us will have access to it. Eventually, enough of us will be vaccinated to where we can finally breathe again and feel comfortable doing the things we love most with the people we care about, including here at church.

The reason why I’m talking about the pandemic this morning is because I think our shared experience over the past year has taught us a lot about who we are as followers of Jesus. It’s caused us to give careful consideration to how our words and actions affect the lives of those around us.

Living through this experience together as a faith community, even though we’ve struggled and had to sacrifice a lot, has taught us so much about what it means to love others as Jesus teaches us in the Gospels. I’m not exaggerating when I say that we’ve walked the way of the Cross with Jesus over the past twelve months, and through all of it, God has been with us, guiding us and giving us the strength we need to endure.

In our Gospel lesson this morning from John, we heard one of the most well-known and beloved verses from Scripture among Christians: John 3:16. Many of us probably have this verse committed to memory. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

This verse from John’s Gospel brings me so much comfort in my life, as it does for so many. But, the comfort I feel when I read it doesn’t come from what you might expect.

We often misinterpret what Jesus was trying to say in this verse. We forget that this passage is actually part of a much longer conversation that Jesus had with a man named Nicodemus, a Pharisee who came to Jesus in secret in order to learn more about him and his teaching.  In their conversation together, Jesus tries to explain to Nicodemus that, in order to enter the kingdom of God, in order to experience the abundant life that God desires for all of us, one must be willing to give up their life and be re-born. One must be committed to living a life of self-giving, sacrificial love for the other.

Contrary to what many people think, John 3:16 isn’t Jesus’ way of saying, “Follow me, or else!” It doesn’t have anything to do with where we go when we die or where we spend eternity.

It’s Jesus’ way of saying, “My way of love is the way of God.” It’s his way of saying, “My way of self-giving, sacrificial love is the path that leads to true joy and true peace with God.”

Once again, this verse doesn’t have anything to do with who’s in and who’s out, and it doesn’t have anything to do with God’s love being limited to only a certain group of people.

God loves each of us the same, more than any of us deserves, and nothing can ever change that.

Martin Luther, the sixteenth-century, German monk who sparked the beginning of the Protestant Reformation, once referred to John 3:16 as “the Gospel in Miniature.” He believed that everything you need to know about Jesus and the Gospel could be learned from this one verse of scripture.

And, I think he had a pretty good point.

Everything we really need to know is right there, printed in your bulletin this morning. When it’s all said and done, the message of the Gospel, the Good News of God in Christ, is that God loves us more than we can possibly imagine. God loves us so much that he came to dwell among us, to live and die as one of us, to teach us and show us a better way to live. God loves us so much that he sacrificed himself on the cross to show us that a life lived in the service of others is the only path to abundant life with God.

So, I want to leave you with a question this morning. You don’t have to answer it right now, but I’d like you to give it some thought in the days ahead, especially as we draw closer to Holy Week. Do you really believe that that the message of the Gospel is Good News? Do you believe that dying to self and committing to a life of sacrificial love and service to others is the path to abundant life with God?

If your answer is “yes,” then you should know the sacrifices we’ve made and the precautions we’ve taken over the past year in order to keep ourselves and others safe have been worth it. If you really believe that the Gospel of Jesus is true, then we’ve been faithful over the past year. Every time we made a sacrifice, knowing that it might keep others safe, we’ve been faithful. We’ve been faithful every time we wore a mask, even when it was inconvenient. We’ve been faithful every time we restrained ourselves from hugging a friend or decided to stay at home instead of going out with a large group of people. We’ve been faithful every time we tuned in online to watch church from home, even though we wanted so desperately to be together in person. Don’t think, for a moment, that the choices we’ve made in order to keep others safe were made in vain. Those choices were made in love and service to God and God’s people.

Now, we’re being called to remain vigilant as this pandemic continues. Yes, we’re beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel, but that doesn’t mean that we can rest easy just yet and go back to the way things were before. Now isn’t the time to stop believing that our words and actions make a difference. Now is the time to remain vigilant.

God has been with us through it all, even in the most difficult moments, and God will continue to be with us until this is all over. That’s God’s promise to us, and that promise will never end. So, hold onto hope, dear friends. Hold onto the knowledge that the way of Jesus is the way of love and the way to abundant life with God. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 13:48 mark.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent (Year B)
March 7, 2021

Text: John 2:13-22

This past week, I spent some time re-reading one of Martin Luther King, Jr’s most popular writings: “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” This wasn’t a random, “spur-of-the-moment” decision. It was actually a homework assignment for those of us who recently came together to form a new ministry in our parish called Project Beloved Community.

Over the past several months, this group has gathered monthly to discuss issues related to social justice and racial inequality. It was born last summer in response to the racial tension and protests that we witnessed all across the country. We began our time together with a study of Bryan Stevenson’s book, Just Mercy, which dealt with really difficult subject matter, including: race relations, the criminal justice system in America, and the death penalty. After that, we decided that our work as a group shouldn’t be limited to just one book study. So, we decided to keep meeting with the hope that our newly-formed group might serve as a springboard for future ministry within the parish and the wider community.

Because of the pandemic, most of our work up to this point has been done through reading articles together, watching videos, listening to podcasts, and participating in monthly Zoom meetings. Mostly, we’ve been trying to better educate ourselves and come up with possible ways that our parish might be involved in the work of building the “Beloved Community.” This phrase, by the way, isn’t something that we came up with. “Beloved Community” is a phrase that was made popular by Martin Luther King, Jr. The King Center, an institution founded in memory of Dr. King, defines “Beloved Community” as “a global vision in which all people can share in the wealth of the earth. In the Beloved Community, poverty, hunger and homelessness will not be tolerated because international standards of human decency will not allow it.  Racism and all forms of discrimination, bigotry and prejudice will be replaced by an all-inclusive spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood.”

That sounds a lot like Jesus, doesn’t it?

“Beloved Community” is what Jesus refers to, in the Gospels, as “the kingdom of God” or “the kingdom of heaven” depending on which Gospel you’re reading. It’s God’s dream of a world redeemed in the self-giving, sacrificial love of Christ. Or, as our Presiding Bishop likes to say, it’s God turning the world upside down, which is really right side up.

Building the “Beloved Community” is work that all of us are called to do as followers of Jesus. It’s the work of the Gospel. Jesus spent his entire ministry trying to tear down the walls that divide us, to bring healing and reconciliation to the world. He did this by teaching us and showing us a better way to live. He did this by allowing himself to be captured by Roman guards and handed over to be crucified, serving as an example of what it truly means to love as God would have us love.

But, building the “Beloved Community” and working to tear down those walls that keep us cut off from each other and from God isn’t easy. It requires steadfast determination and a commitment to moving beyond the walls of the church. It requires a willingness to be vulnerable and to accept the fact that things aren’t the way that they should be. It requires us to ask ourselves tough questions that might be difficult to answer.

Think about our own parish for a moment. What are some of the questions we might ask ourselves?

Who’s here, and who isn’t?

Who are we reaching out to in the wider community?

Are there groups of people who are being overlooked?

How much of our time and resources are we devoting to things going on here?

And how much of our time and resources are we devoting to outreach?

What is the message we’re sending to the wider community when acts of violence and oppression are being committed against the most vulnerable members of our society?

As I re-read “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” which was written in April of 1963, I was reminded that we still have a lot of work to do as the Body of Christ. Many of the issues we were dealing with in the 1960s are still prevalent today. People of color are still suffering as victims of violence and systemic racism. As the Church, we have a lot of work to do in building the “Beloved Community,” and that work begins with repentance and truth-telling. It begins with acknowledging the fact that the Church, including our beloved Episcopal Church, has played a role in the oppression and discrimination of others. As difficult as that is to say out loud, it’s the truth. As I read it this past week, there was one line in Dr. King’s letter that really hit me hard. He wrote, “When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.”

I don’t want to be the kind of priest that Dr. King wrote about in his letter, and I confess to you, my brothers and sisters, that at times, I’ve been more “cautious than courageous.” At times, I’ve been too afraid to speak out about important issues for fear that my comments might be too divisive. At times, I’ve been more concerned with maintaining the status quo, with not wanting to “stir the pot” too much, than to speak the truth in love, even though that’s what the Gospel demands of us. Trust me when I say that it’s much easier to preach a sermon that makes you feel good than a sermon that might disturb you or challenge your ideas and assumptions.

Maybe you feel the same way as I do sometimes. Maybe fear has caused you to doubt whether or not to speak out on difficult issues that demand our attention.

I don’t want us to be the kind of church that Dr. King wrote about, either. I want us to be a mission-focused church, equally as concerned about what goes on in the world around us as we are about what goes on here and unafraid to tell the truth about difficult issues that might challenge us or make us uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong. I love what we do here as a faith community. Church on Sunday mornings is one of my favorite times throughout the week, and I love being able to spend it with you. But, we’re mistaken if we think of it as a means to an end. Worship on Sundays typically takes up about an hour of our time each week (if the preacher will wrap it up already). But, the reason we come to church isn’t just for that one hour. We come to be renewed and restored, to be formed as disciples of Jesus, so that we can go out, beyond the walls of the church, to bring the light of Christ to the world.

The message of the Gospel is one that the world desperately needs to hear. God needs us to be bearers of the light of Christ, to stand up and speak out when the powers and principalities of this world seek to destroy the children of God. It’s our responsibility, as members of the Body of Christ. And, as Dr. King once said, “The time is always right to do what is right.”

In our Gospel lesson for this morning, we heard John’s account of Jesus cleansing the Temple in Jerusalem. He and his disciples are preparing for Passover, and when he enters the Temple, he sees merchants selling cattle, sheep, and doves—unblemished animals that people could purchase and sacrifice as an offering to God. Jesus also witnesses money changers in the Temple, who were there in order to exchange currency for people who were visiting from outside of Jerusalem. Temple money was the only form of currency that could be used to purchase sacrificial animals for high holy days, and it’s likely that, because of this system of exchanging currency, pilgrims were frequently exploited and taken advantage of. What’s worse is that the religious leaders in the Temple allowed it to happen!

They allowed money and wealth to cloud their judgment. They allowed the Temple to become a place of commerce, a place overly concerned with its own well-being rather than a place of prayer and devotion to God.

When Jesus sees what’s happening, he becomes outraged. He drives the merchants, along with their animals, and the money changers out of the Temple. He pours out their money on the ground and overturns their tables, saying, “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

His actions aren’t just a criticism of the merchants and money changers. He’s angry with the whole institution. The Temple has become a place committed to something other than what God intended.

I think it’s important for us to consider the possibility that, at times, Jesus is disappointed and even angry with the Church as well, especially in those moments when we’re more concerned with what’s going on here and sustaining our own well-being than being a place solely devoted to the worship of God and serving God’s people. When we forget who we are and why we’re here, it’s easy for us to become focused more on ourselves and less on those whom we’re called to serve.

We love having a beautiful space where we can come and worship God and spend time with each other, but as the Church, we are more than our buildings and property.

We love times of fellowship, sharing meals together, and growing as a parish family, but as the Church, we are more than a social club or a weekly gathering of friends.

We love to come to church on Sunday mornings, to be inspired for the week ahead, but as the Church, we are more than a place where we come to feel good about ourselves once a week.

We are the Body of Christ. We are called to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus through our words and actions and to love and serve God and God’s people. We are called to work for the building up of God’s Kingdom, the “Beloved Community,” to help bring healing and transformation to this broken and sinful world. Nothing else will do. It’s our Gospel imperative to do this work. My prayer is that God will open our eyes and break open our hearts so that we may see and know the truth of who we are and what we’re called to do. May God give us the strength and courage we need to be faithful to our calling and to cast out those things which cause us to forget who we are. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 17:50 mark.