Category Archives: Sermons

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year B)
February 28, 2021

Text: Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16

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

One of the things that disappointed me the most about 2020 was not being able to go and serve as a chaplain to the campers and staff members at Sawyerville Summer Camp. Some of you have probably heard me talk about Sawyerville before, but for those of you who haven’t, Sawyerville is basically a summer camp for the children of Hale County—one of the poorest and most underserved counties in our state. Each year, for three weeks during the summer, volunteers and staff members from the Diocese of Alabama travel to Greensboro to provide this wonderful ministry for any child who would like to attend, free of charge. Sawyerville is a ministry of our diocese, which means that it’s supported by all of our parishes.

Over the years, going and serving as a chaplain for a week at Sawyerville has become one of my favorite things to do, and I’m thankful every time I get the chance to return. Last year, due to COVID-19, summer camp had to be canceled, and it broke my heart to know that the children who normally attend Sawyerville wouldn’t be able to. In place of summer camp, the staff and volunteers put together “Camp-in-a-Box” for every registered camper. These boxes provided the children with toys, books, swimsuits, and other items to help make their summer break a little more special, and thanks to your generosity as a parish, we helped contribute to the cause by making a special donation to Sawyerville.

One of the things I missed most about not getting to go to Sawyerville last year was singing all of the  silly, camp songs that we normally get to sing with the campers. In case you don’t know, we do a lot of singing at Sawyerville! We sing songs in the morning when the campers first arrive. We sing songs during program time. We sing songs on the bus, to and from the pool. We even sing songs at the end of the day as children are waiting to be picked up to go home.

One of my favorite songs that we sing is called, “Father Abraham.” Has anyone ever heard of it? If you grew up going to Sunday School at church or grew up going to church camp during the summer, you’ve probably sung “Father Abraham,” at least once or twice!

It goes something like this:

Father Abraham had many sons,
And many sons had Father Abraham.
I am one of them, and so are you.
So, let’s all praise the Lord!

And that’s really all there is to it! Once you’ve learned the chorus, you know the entire song! It just repeats over and over again. At Sawyerville, we get faster each time we sing it, and at the end of each chorus we add a movement, which makes it even more fun. By the end of the song, we’re waving our arms and legs. We’re nodding our head to the beat of the music, and we’re sticking out our tongue, trying our best to sing the words in the most embarrassing way possible.

I’m not going to demonstrate that for you today. You’ll just have to come to Sawyerville and see it for yourself! It’s really a fun song to sing with all the campers, and they love it whenever we do.

As I was reading our lesson appointed for today from the Book of Genesis, I was reminded of Sawyerville and the words to “Father Abraham”—especially the part where we sing, “I am one of them, and so are you.”

If you grew up singing this song at summer camp or in Sunday school, have you ever thought about the words and what they really mean? Why, for example, would we refer to Abraham as our “Father,” and why would we call ourselves “sons” or “daughters” of Abraham? As Christians, we tend to focus mostly on the life and ministry of Jesus and how Jesus calls us to live our lives. In our study of the Scriptures, most of us probably spend the majority of our time in the New Testament, especially in the Gospels. So why, then, is Abraham so important? Why is “Father Abraham” a song that we love to teach our children?

In order to answer those questions, we have to go back to the beginning of our story with God, to the Book of Genesis. We have to go back to a time long before Jesus was born and learn about a special relationship that was formed between God and a man named Abram.

When God and Abram first meet, in the twelfth chapter of Genesis, God tells Abram to pick up everything and move from the land he’s always known. God tells him, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.” Abram listens to God and obeys his command. Despite his old age, he picks up everything he has. He takes his wife, Sarai, and all of their possessions and travels to the land of Canaan.

At times, Abram has his doubts about God’s promise, but through it all, God remains faithful to Abram.

In our lesson for today, from the seventeenth chapter of Genesis, Abram receives another message from God. This time, Abram is much older than he was when he first encountered God. God says, “I am God Almighty; walk before me and be blameless. And I will make my covenant between me and you, and will make you exceedingly numerous.”

The Scripture tells us that, at once, Abram falls down on his face in response to God’s message. God continues to speak and tells Abram that he is establishing a covenant with him. “You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations,” God says. “No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you.”

It’s that last line that really spoke to me this past week and inspired me to preach today on this text from Genesis. God makes an “everlasting covenant” with Abraham and promises to be God to him and future generations forever.

So, what does this have to do with us? As members of the Body of Christ, we are spiritual descendants of Abraham. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the same God who chose David, a descendant of Abraham, to be king over Israel. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the same God who spoke through the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures—people like Jeremiah, who foretold that God would raise up for David a righteous Branch. In the very first verse of the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is referred to as Messiah, “the son of David, the son of Abraham.”

So, you see, we are spiritual descendants of Abraham. The everlasting covenant made between God and future generations has been fulfilled through Jesus Christ. As Christians, we’ve been promised that God will always be our God and that we will always be God’s children. Nothing can ever separate us from the love of God. Even when we make the worst mistakes and fall short of God’s call, God will always be faithful and ready to forgive us.

But, part of living in a covenant relationship with God means that the commitment to be faithful goes both ways. It isn’t just one-sided. God promises to be faithful to us, and in return, we promise to be faithful to God, no matter what, through the good times and the bad. This kind of relationship is more than just casual. We don’t get to decide from day to day whether or not to be God’s children. It’s a lot like the covenant we make in our baptism. We don’t get to decide from day to day whether or not we’re baptized. Once we’ve received the sacrament of Holy Baptism, we are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. Nothing can ever change that.

The problem, though, is that we sometimes allow things to come in between us and God. We allow other things, other relationships, to become a greater priority in our lives than the relationship we share with God. The Bible refers to these things as “idols.” Idols are things that take our attention away from cultivating and growing our relationship with God—and by extension—loving and serving God’s people. Idols are things we worship in place of God because we think they’ll make us happy and fill the empty spaces in our hearts. And, idols come in a variety of different forms.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, for example, Israel’s relationship with God was strained because they believed that an idol—a Golden Calf, of all things—could take God’s place and save them during their time in the wilderness.

Idols can be material things, like money and possessions. They can be thoughts and ideas, like the relationship we have with our work or the desire we have to be more successful and popular.

What idols are standing in between you and God? Which relationships need to change so that your relationship with God can get stronger?

The truth is that only God can save us and fill the empty spaces in our hearts. As much as we try, the idols we worship in place of God will only make us feel good for a brief moment. They’re like a breath—in one moment and out the next. But God, who established with Abraham an everlasting covenant and promised to be our God forever, will never leave us. During our journey through Lent, we’re invited into a time of self-examination and repentance, a time for us to think about the ways we’ve allowed other things, other relationships, to take precedence over our relationship with God. Now is the time. As we move through this holy season and make preparations for Easter, the time is now for us to focus our attention on God and what God desires for our lives. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 17:45 mark.

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent (Year B)
February 21, 2021

The Gospel: Mark 1:9-15

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

Two Sundays ago, on February 7th, the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., welcomed a guest preacher into their pulpit. The sermon that day was pre-recorded and offered by a man who some of you may have heard of before. His name is Max Lucado. Mr. Lucado is a very prolific author, and his writing is well-known among many people, especially those in the world of evangelical Christianity. He also serves as the pastor at a large, evangelical church in San Antonio, Texas.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never read a single word of Max Lucado’s writing. I don’t know what he’s written about in the past. I don’t know what he teaches or believes about God. The only reason I’m familiar with his name at all is because I’ve seen stacks of his books lining the shelves in various stores. So, I know that he’s fairly popular and that he sells a lot of books, and that’s about it.

When I first heard that the National Cathedral had extended an invitation for Mr. Lucado to preach, I was a little surprised. It seemed like an odd decision to invite an evangelical pastor to preach in an Episcopal cathedral. But, at the same time, I knew that the National Cathedral has a reputation for inviting preachers from other denominations to come and preach. They strive to be a “house of prayer for all people,” meaning that they seek to build bridges with people beyond the Episcopal Church, representing other faith traditions. So, I didn’t really think much more about it.

It wasn’t until later that I started seeing concerns from other people about the invitation and discovered a little bit more about Mr. Lucado and some of the things he’s said and written in the past concerning our brothers and sisters in the LGBTQ community.

Now, I want to stop for just a moment and tell you that my intention in today’s sermon isn’t to publicly criticize or chastise Max Lucado or to even comment on the things he’s said and done in the past. All I’ll say is that some of the things he’s written and said were extremely hurtful to a lot of people. You can decide on your own if you want to explore that further.

No, my intention today isn’t to criticize what one person has done. My intention is to talk about how we, as baptized Christians, are called to live our lives a particular way and to seek repentance when we’ve fallen short of God’s call. My intention is to bear witness to the transforming love of God and what can happen when we allow ourselves to experience true repentance.

Soon after the invitation to preach at the National Cathedral was extended to Mr. Lucado, people from all across the Episcopal Church began voicing their concerns. They wanted to know why an Episcopal cathedral would welcome someone into the pulpit who had written such hateful words about the LGBTQ community. They wanted to know how an Episcopal cathedral, a faith community that has worked for years to become a safe and inclusive space, could betray their trust in such a hurtful way.

I’ll admit that I shared their concerns and was very tempted to write a letter myself to the dean of the Cathedral. There are ways to have an honest and open dialogue and to build relationships with people who represent different theological opinions and beliefs, but in my opinion, the pulpit isn’t the place for that. The pulpit is the place where the love of God in Christ Jesus is proclaimed, and in the Episcopal Church, we trust that the message coming from the pulpit will be that God’s love is for all people and that every person, without exception, is wonderfully and beautifully made in the image of God.

The concerns and comments continued to mount over the days leading up to the service, and news outlets from across the Church covered the story as anxious people waited to hear how the Cathedral would respond. Unfortunately, very little was said. For the most part, the cries of anger and frustration over the Cathedral’s decision were ignored.

The day of the service arrived, and the sermon was preached, as scheduled. During the service, both the dean of the Cathedral, Randy Hollerith, and the celebrant for the day, Bishop Gene Robinson, gave brief remarks concerning the decision to invite Max Lucado to preach. Although the remarks were appreciated by some, many people were still very disappointed and hurt by the decision. Some even went as far to say that it was unforgivable, that they no longer felt welcome in the Episcopal Church.

I waited to see what would happen in the aftermath. I waited and wondered, “What will they do now?” “Now that the damage has been done, how will they respond?” Will they continue to ignore the hurt and the anger they’ve caused? Or, will they acknowledge what they’ve done and seek forgiveness?

In the week following the service, the dean of the Cathedral and the Bishop of Washington, Mariann Budde, expressed great remorse over their decision. Each of them released letters to the public, which have been posted on the home page of the cathedral’s website. Not only were they words seeking forgiveness, but they were also words seeking understanding. Not only did they apologize for their part in causing so much pain, but they also committed to doing better. Tonight, for example, the National Cathedral is hosting a listening session for anyone who would like to speak about their experiences in the Church as members of the LGBTQ community and their allies. Their hope is that this will be the first step in trying to make amends for the pain they’ve caused.

I think it’s important to acknowledge that the leaders of the Cathedral and the Diocese of Washington could’ve easily moved on from what happened without giving it much more thought. Sure, there would’ve been lots of hurt feelings for a while and the reputation of the cathedral might’ve been stained, at least for a short time. But, eventually things would go back to normal, and people would get over what happened once they had a chance to calm down.

That isn’t what happened, though. Rather than simply sweeping things under the rug, as we’ve witnessed churches do in the past, and denying any responsibility for what happened, the dean and the bishop both acknowledged their fault. They made their confession and began the process of trying to make things right, of trying to do better.

It isn’t easy to confess when you’ve done something wrong, and speaking from personal experience, it’s especially difficult when you’re in a position of authority. Leaders are expected to be strong and to have all the answers figured out, at least according to the world’s standards. Admitting when you’re wrong, showing remorse, vowing to make a change for the sake of others—all of these are seen as a sign of weakness.

But, not in God’s eyes. When we confess our sins to God for hurting others in ways that are known and unknown, we take the first step toward true repentance and amendment of life. Repentance is the way that we heal our broken relationship with God and each other. In the first words of his public ministry to the people of Galilee, which we heard in our Gospel lesson for this morning, Jesus says, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

From the very beginning of his ministry, Jesus establishes for us a pattern of holy living. “Repent,” Jesus says, “and believe in the good news.” Why would we ever think that repentance is a bad thing or a sign of weakness when Jesus tells us otherwise? Jesus tells us that our place in God’s Kingdom is based on our willingness to repent—to turn back to God when we’ve fallen short of our call to love and serve others, to turn back to God when we’ve neglected to fulfill our baptismal vows.

We’re going to fall short. It’s part of what it means to be human. Every day, we’re faced with our own wilderness journey. We’re faced with a variety of temptations and choices to make, and sometimes, we’re just going to get it wrong. But, for every temptation we indulge in and every wrong choice we make, we’re also given the opportunity to make things right. By God’s grace, we’re given the opportunity each day to say, “I’m sorry, and I’ll try to do better next time.” During the season of Lent, the Church invites us to practice saying these words so that our relationship with God might be strengthened and renewed. I hope you’ll take these words to heart as our journey through Lent continues.

Remember these words. Bring them with you into prayers. “I’m sorry, and I’ll try to do better next time.”

These words aren’t a sign of weakness, and they aren’t a sign that God loves us any less. They’re a sign that God is working in us and calling us to come back home. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 21:24 mark.

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday (Year B)
February 17, 2021

Psalm 103:8-14

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

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

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

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

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

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

Psalm 103, the one appointed to be read every year on Ash Wednesday, falls under the psalm of praise category. It begins with the words, “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.” You would think that the framers of our lectionary would choose a psalm of lament to be read on Ash Wednesday during the Liturgy of the Word—a psalm that expresses our plea for God to be merciful and kind, to rescue us from our wicked and sinful ways. But instead, we’re given a psalm of praise, a psalm that expresses our thankfulness to the God who loves us more than we can possibly imagine, the God who is always ready to forgive us and welcome us back home. I think this is an important detail to consider as we contemplate the significance of this day and the beginning of our journey through Lent.

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

But, when we think of Lent in this way, we run the risk of missing out on how incredibly life-changing it can be. One of my goals as a priest each year, around this time, is to offer a better and more helpful way to think about Lent. It isn’t a punishment from God. It isn’t God sending us to “time out” for forty days and forty nights. It’s actually a time for us to draw closer to God, a time for us to be intentional in rebuilding our relationship with the one who created us, the one who loves us with no exception. Overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt are useless in this work. Now, that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t acknowledge those moments when we’ve fallen short of God’s call or our need to repent and return to the Lord. But, if we spend all of our time in Lent focused on our sinfulness and what we’ve done wrong, we create a stumbling block for ourselves.

A former professor of mine from seminary recently wrote an article about observing Lent this year based on a question that many of us have probably asked ourselves already. “Must we do Lent this year?” After a year of desperately holding on through a global pandemic, after a year of giving up so much already, after a year of so much death and sadness and isolation, must we do Lent this year? And the answer, of course, is, “no.” No one is forcing us to observe Lent this year, at least not in our day-to-day lives, but why wouldn’t we? 

Think about that question. Why wouldn’t we accept the Church’s invitation to observe a holy Lent? Why wouldn’t we accept an opportunity to grow and seek new life with God, to be reminded each day of God’s unending love for us? It’s true. Lent can be an emotional time, especially as we move closer and closer to Holy Week. We know how the story of Jesus unfolds, don’t we? We know that he’ll go through much suffering and pain in Jerusalem before he’s finally sentenced to die on the cross, and perhaps this year, more than most, the emotional weight of Jesus’ suffering will resonate with us even more deeply. But, we also know that the story doesn’t end on the cross. The story ends with joy and resurrection and new life. This is the journey we’re invited to take with Jesus over the next several weeks, a journey to rediscover who we are as God’s beloved children. I hope you’ll join me and accept the invitation. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 13:35 mark.

A Sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany (Year B)
February 14, 2021

The Gospel: Mark 9:2-9

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

I want to tell you about a time I heard God speak to me. No, I’m not talking about an actual voice from heaven, like the one that Jesus’ disciples heard in our Gospel lesson for this morning. I heard God speak to me as a deep longing in my soul—a longing that I ignored for a long time because I tried to convince myself that God wouldn’t call a person like me to be a priest in the Episcopal Church—a person like me, who grew up un-churched and was practically brand new to the faith; a person like me, who already spent years in college training to become a music teacher and never could’ve imagined doing anything else.

It was in the Fall of 2009, only a few months after Sophie was born. We were living in southeast Alabama at the time, in my hometown of Enterprise. I was working as a choral music teacher at the local junior high school. Chelsea was commuting back and forth from Dothan, working as a nurse in the labor and delivery unit at Southeast Alabama Medical Center.

We had recently returned from Auburn, where Sophie was baptized at St. Dunstan’s by my dear friend, Father Wells. It was an ordinary weekday. I woke up and got ready to go to work, as I did each morning. I left the house and got into my car, completely unaware of what was about to happen. I cranked the ignition, and as soon as the engine came to life, I heard a song playing through the speakers. I knew in an instant what it was—a sacred piece of choral music, recorded by the Cambridge Singers. Samuel Barber’s setting of the Agnus Dei began playing, and all I could do was sit in my car, still parked in the driveway, and listen as the choir sang. The words were in Latin, but I knew the translation:

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

Those who are familiar with The Book of Common Prayer will recognize these words. We say them often during the Eucharist in the part of the service where the priest lifts up the consecrated bread and breaks it in half, serving as a reminder not only of our Lord’s sacrifice on the cross but also as a reminder that we are the Body of Christ, broken and poured out for the life of the world.

That morning, back in 2009, as I sat in my driveway at home and heard the choir sing the words to the Agnus Dei, I wept. I wept, not because I was sad or upset but because I was finally coming to terms with the fact that I had ignored God’s call for too long. Warm streams of tears rolled down my face as I thought to myself, “What am I doing?” “God is calling, but I haven’t been listening.” If I’m being completely honest, I think I was too afraid to listen.

I heard God speak to me that morning in the deepest depths of my soul. God spoke and said, “You know what you need to do.” Finally, I was willing to listen and overcome my fear. Finally, I was able to accept the fact that I was being called to follow a different path. I was able to admit to myself that God was calling me to be a priest, something I couldn’t ignore any longer.

So, after that day, I reached out to my priest at the time, Mother Ede. The two of us sat down in her office, and I told her everything. I told her about how I began the discernment process for ordination back in 2007 but had to end it because of the new teaching job I took in Enterprise. I told her about my experience sitting in the driveway at home and how I knew that God was calling me to be a priest. She was so supportive of me and my sense of call, and the two of us began meeting regularly, setting me on a course that would change my life and the life of our family forever.

I wanted to share this story with you this morning because I think it has a lot to do with how God speaks to us in our lives. God speaks to us and reveals God’s self in ways that are often unexpected and unimaginable, like through a piece of music playing on the radio. I didn’t expect to wake up one morning and experience some divine revelation, but that’s exactly what happened. God spoke, and I listened.

It’s also what happened to Peter, James, and John in our Gospel lesson this morning in the story of Jesus’ transfiguration. The Gospel writer doesn’t provide us with many details, but I can imagine what must’ve been running through the disciples’ heads as they were led by Jesus to the top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere. “Where in the world are we going,” they might’ve thought, “and, why is Jesus leaving the other disciples behind while we go off by ourselves?” They probably had a million questions with no idea what to expect. When they finally arrived at the top, they witnessed something beyond comprehension, something unimaginable. There was Jesus, standing before them with clothes that were “dazzling white.” The author of Mark’s Gospel uses the word “transfigured” to describe Jesus’ appearance, which means “changed” or “transformed” in some way. Not only that, but standing next to Jesus and talking with him were Moses and Elijah—prominent figures from the Hebrew Scriptures and pillars of the Jewish faith.

Can you imagine what that experience must’ve been like? Can you imagine how terrifying it must’ve been to witness something so spectacular and unexpected?

At the end of the story, a cloud descends upon all of them, and a voice from heaven proclaims, “This is my Son, the Beloved: listen to him!”

“Listen to him,” the voice cries out. God speaks, and the disciples listen.

We hear the story of Jesus’ transfiguration told every year on this day, on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, as we prepare to move from one liturgical season to the next. Very soon, we will enter the holy season of Lent, a journey we’re invited to take with Christ each year, a time of intentional prayer and fasting, a time of preparation and repentance as we take a close look at our lives and think about ways that we might change in order to draw closer to God.

Prayer is one way for us to begin the work that the season of Lent invites us to do. The Prayer Book defines prayer as “responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” I love that definition so much, especially the part where it talks about “responding to God.” So many of us struggle with the idea of prayer, especially when we think about it in terms of “talking to God” or trying to come up with the right words to say to God. But, if we take the Prayer Book’s definition of prayer to heart, then we come to realize that prayer doesn’t really begin with what we do or say. It actually begins with God. Let me say that again. Prayer begins with God. Our job is to listen out for what God is trying to say and then respond, “by thought and by deeds, with or without words.”

In my vocation as a priest, I’ve often been told, “I just don’t know if God is hearing my prayers,” as if there’s a question about whether or not God is listening to us.

But, what I’ve found is that our question shouldn’t be, “Is God listening?” We know and trust that God hears and answers our prayers. The question shouldn’t be, “Is God listening?” The question we should really be asking ourselves is, “Are we listening?” Are we listening to what God is trying to tell us? Or, are we too afraid to listen?

There are lots of reasons to be afraid because if there’s anything we know about what God calls us to do, we know that it probably has something to do with the cross. We know that it probably has something to do with living a sacrificial life, of giving up our selves in order to love and serve others. We know this because of Jesus and what Jesus goes through when he reaches Jerusalem.

There are reasons why we might be tempted to ignore what God is trying to tell us, but there’s also every reason to be fearless because we already know how the story unfolds. In the end, we know that love wins. The forces that seek to weigh us down and keep us separated from the God who loves us are defeated, once and for all. Listening to God and responding to God’s call isn’t always easy. We know there’ll be challenges and temptations along the way, but we also know that God is faithful and will never leave us to face those challenges and temptations alone.

As we prepare to move into the season of Lent and turn our focus toward Jesus’ journey to the cross, I invite you into a time of prayer, a time of holy listening. “Listen to him,” the voice from heaven told the disciples in our Gospel lesson for today. Listen to Jesus, and don’t be afraid. Open yourselves to the possibility that God is trying to speak to you in ways that are surprising and unexpected. Open yourselves to the possibility that God is calling you to try something new or something different than what you might’ve imagined. God is speaking to us. May we have the courage and wisdom to listen. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 16:53 mark.

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year B)
February 7, 2021

The Gospel: Mark 1:29-39

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

Several months ago, Chelsea and I decided to invest in our physical fitness by purchasing one of those fancy Peloton bikes that you see advertised on television from time to time. You know, the kind where you can participate in a live spin class without having to go to a gym—the kind with an instructor on the other side of the screen, pushing you to keep moving your legs and adding more and more resistance. Now, I promise that my sermon for today isn’t an endorsement for Peloton or an attempt to convince you to go out and purchase an exercise bike.

But, I do want to share something with you that was recently shared with me by one of my favorite Peloton instructors—Ally Love.

Ally offers a weekly class on Sunday mornings called “Sundays with Love.” I would describe it as a blend of physical fitness, inspiring music, and spiritual reflection. There’s a physical component—the map that Ally has designed for the ride, with moments of intense cardio as well as moments of active recovery. But, there’s also a spiritual component—a virtue that Ally has chosen to talk about during the course of the ride. These virtues change from week to week and have included everything from gratitude and patience to selflessness and compassion. As a spiritual leader, I’m thankful for these weekly opportunities because it gives me a chance to simply be present without having to be the person who’s front and center. These classes aren’t a replacement for church, but I find them to be very meaningful.

During a class a couple of weeks ago, Ally chose to talk about an important virtue, one that actually comes up quite frequently in the Scriptures: joyfulness. What I appreciated most about the class was that Ally took the time to distinguish the difference between joyfulness and happiness, words that many of us often use interchangeably. But, there’s a difference. Happiness can change from moment to moment and usually depends on external things beyond our control. Joyfulness, on the other hand, is something that we have the ability to choose for ourselves, something we can only attain by being present to the needs of others. Keep in mind that “Sundays with Love” isn’t advertised as a “Christian” spin class.All are welcome. But, anyone who has read the Gospels and is familiar with the teachings of Jesus will immediately pick up on some of the similarities.

Ally even incorporates stories into her classes, similar to how Jesus incorporates stories—or parables—into his teaching to illustrate an important lesson about the Kingdom of God.

In her class from a couple of weeks ago, Ally shared a story about an old woman who, one day, received a letter in the mail from God. In the letter, God simply wrote, “I’m going to show up later at your house.”

The woman thought to herself, “God’s coming to my house? I don’t have anything to feed him! What do I do?” She was worried and started freaking out!

She didn’t have a lot of money, but she scrounged around the house and eventually found five coins.

She took her money to the market and said, “You know what? I’m going to buy as much as I can with these five coins. We’re going to have a feast because God is coming over!” So, she buys as much as she can afford and begins the journey back home.

On the way, she walks by two strangers, a man and his wife. They stop the woman, and say, “Ma’am we’re hungry. We have no food. Can you help us?”

The old woman was stuck and had a difficult decision to make. She knows she has to feed God because he’s showing up soon to her house. So, she looks at the couple and says, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. This is all I have, and I have an important guest coming over soon.”

The couple said, “It’s okay. Thank you for stopping.”

The old woman stepped away, and two seconds later, she stopped in her tracks. She turned around and gave the couple all the food she had. She also noticed that the man’s wife looked cold and remembered that she had an extra coat at home. So, she unbuttoned her coat and gave it to the wife.

The woman continued on her way home stressed out, thinking to herself, “God is coming over, and I have nothing to feed him!”

Finally, she arrives back home and starts straightening up a bit and cleaning her house. She takes what little food she already had and puts it on the table for her special guest.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. “A letter for you, ma’am,” says the person at the door. She takes the letter, opens it up, and reads the message.

“Dear friend, it was great to see you today. Thank you for stopping and feeding me. Love, God.”

When I heard Ally share her story—her parable—I knew that I would have to share it with you. It’s such a simple story but one that beautifully illustrates the love of God that we’re called to share with all people—especially the most vulnerable among us. Jesus said, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” 

This faith to which we are called, as Christians, is an embodied faith. What I mean by that is that it’s a faith that we practice—not by standing by and waiting for others to do the work or waiting for God to magically show up and do the work for us—but by showing up ourselves and serving those whom the world would rather forget. The hungry and thirsty have been entrusted into our care. The stranger and the naked have been entrusted into our care. The sick and those in prison have been entrusted into our care.

In our lesson today from Mark’s Gospel, which takes place immediately following the events in last week’s lesson, Jesus goes to the house of Simon and his brother, Andrew, to visit Simon’s mother-in-law, who is sick and lying in bed with a fever. Jesus goes to the woman’s side, takes her hand, and lifts her up, and immediately, the fever subsides and the woman is healed.

What strikes me most about this story is the fact that Jesus doesn’t ask or expect Simon to bring his mother-in-law to where he is. After hearing of her illness, Jesus doesn’t wait around. He goes to be by her side. He holds her hand in his and comforts her in her weakness. Presumably, Jesus could’ve healed the woman from anywhere, but that wasn’t good enough. He made the choice to go and be with her in person.

This faith to which we are called, as followers of the one who healed Simon’s mother-in-law, along with so many others, is an embodied faith. Like Jesus—and like the old woman in our story from earlier—we’re called to show up in person, to offer comfort and healing whenever we can—especially to the most vulnerable among us. There’s power in our willingness to be physically present to the needs of others. It’s one of the ways we live out our calling as baptized Christians.

And it’s really difficult when we’re unable to fulfill this part of our call because of reasons that are beyond our control.

Over the past year, during this time of pandemic, we’ve been limited in the ways we’re able to show up for people, at least physically. As a parish, we’ve been limited to having worship online without the ability to see each other’s faces or “pass the peace” with a hug or handshake or even receive the Eucharist. We haven’t been able to sit next to each other to enjoy a meal or conversation. We haven’t been able to do the things we’ve grown accustomed to—the things that we rely on to keep us connected as a faith community.

As individuals, we’ve been limited as well during this time of social distancing. Friends and extended families haven’t been able to gather as much as they would like. Our children have experienced a year in school like no other, often being restricted to distance learning. Many of our friends have had to say goodbye to loved ones over the telephone, which is so heartbreaking to even think about.

What I’m trying to get at here is that we haven’t been able to show up for each other or to care for one another in the ways that we feel called to do. We haven’t been able to embody our faith in the ways we would like, and it really hurts. It hurts because it causes us to feel disconnected from those we love.

Our challenge, at least for the time being, is to continue doing all we can, to be intentional about showing up in ways that might not be ideal but ways that still demonstrate the love of God in Christ Jesus, the love that Jesus demonstrates in the Gospels. We can do this in a number of ways: by showing up online and participating in worship when we can’t be together in person; by reaching out and calling or texting a friend or family member who you haven’t spoken to in a while; by offering to cook and drop off a meal to someone who’s sick; by reminding people that they’re loved. The possibilities are endless. 

There are still ways we can embody our faith, even when we can’t be physically present, but it requires us to be intentional. We have to make the choice to show up for others. Otherwise, it won’t ever happen. I invite you and encourage you to think about ways you can show up for others as this pandemic continues. Embody your faith. Remember that Jesus doesn’t wait for those who are sick to come to him. He shows up at their bedside. Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 17:25 mark.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year B)
January 31, 2021

The Gospel: Mark 1:21-28

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

Last week, during the presidential inauguration, the world heard from an impressive, young lady named Amanda Gorman, who is the nation’s first-ever youth poet laureate and the youngest person to ever read a poem at a presidential inauguration.

In an interview she gave after the inauguration, she shared that she began working on the poem weeks before the event but then later changed the poem’s wording to reflect the tragic events that took place in our nation’s capital on January 6th. In an article published by The Washington Post, she said, “My hope is that my poem will represent a moment of unity for our country” and “with my words, I’ll be able to speak to a new chapter and era for our nation.”

In the hours and days following the inauguration, Amanda went viral. Pictures and quotes from her performance at the inauguration began popping up all over social media. Almost instantly, everyone knew who Amanda Gorman was, and more importantly, they loved what she had to say. Even our Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry, took notice of Amanda and her poem and included part of it in his most recent address to the House of Bishops.

It doesn’t matter whether or not you voted for President Biden in the election. It doesn’t matter whether you consider yourself a Republican or a Democrat or anything in between. Amanda’s words, in that moment, were offered as a balm of healing for our country. Her words were offered as a source of comfort and hope to a divided nation at a time when we need them most. She didn’t seek to alienate anyone or to point fingers. Her hope was to help make “e pluribus unum” a reality, the motto of the United States of America, “Out of many, one.”

As I was reading our Gospel lesson for today, I was reminded of Amanda’s performance at the inauguration and the overwhelming sense of encouragement I felt as I watched this twenty-two year old, African American woman offer her words to the rest of the country.  Jesus, in today’s Gospel lesson, offers the same sense of hope and encouragement in his words to the people of Capernaum. The author of Mark’s Gospel isn’t specific on exactly what Jesus says, but from the reading, we know that the people were “astounded at his teaching.” Mark literally uses the word “astounded” as a way to describe the people’s reaction to Jesus’ words. Here is a man, probably no more than thirty years old, at the beginning of his ministry. It’s likely that he has no formal training as a rabbi. He has no position of authority and no right to get up in the middle of the synagogue and begin teaching. And yet, that’s exactly what he does. He defies expectations, and even more than that, Jesus demonstrates for the people that his ministry, his way of love, will be a source of healing for all people. After he’s done teaching, a man whom the Gospel writer refers to as “a man with an unclean spirit” comes up to Jesus and says, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” Jesus rebukes the unclean spirit and says, “Be silent, and come out of him.” At once, the man who was tormented by the unclean spirit is healed and restored to fullness of life.

Once again, the people are astounded by Jesus, but this time, they’re astounded for a different reason. They look around and say to one another, “He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” There’s something different about this man.

Well, word travels fast, and almost overnight, everyone in the region of Galilee knows who this Jesus is. You might say that Jesus goes viral.

Why do you suppose that happened? Why do you think that news traveled so quickly about this young man from Nazareth who taught with authority and had the power to heal the man with an unclean spirit?

I think it’s because most people have a built-in desire to be inspired and hopeful. I think it’s also because most people want to share with others the things that inspire them and give them hope. Think about social media, for example. Now, I know there’s a lot of negativity and misinformation on Twitter and Facebook and other websites, but I find that most people, regardless of their political or even religious beliefs, tend to share things that they find comforting and meaningful, things that might bring a sense of comfort and peace to others.

Perhaps that’s the reason why news traveled so fast about Jesus and his ministry of teaching and healing. People want to inspired and hopeful.

Perhaps that’s also the reason why news traveled so fast about Amanda Gorman and her poem at the inauguration. People want to be inspired and hopeful.

The Gospel of Jesus—the Good News of God in Christ—is both inspirational and hopeful. It speaks of death being defeated, once and for all, of darkness having no dominion over the light. It speaks of unclean spirits being cast out, of the sick being healed, and of the blind being restored to fullness of sight. It speaks of the old heaven and earth passing away and a new creation coming to fulfillment, one where heaven and earth will be joined together for all time. It speaks of self-giving, sacrificial love as the only way to enjoy fullness of life with the God who made us. Not hate. Not resentment. Not fear. Love is the only way.

And this Gospel, this way of Jesus, is ours to proclaim. As members of the Body of Christ, we’ve been called to proclaim it by word and deed, wherever the Spirit may lead us. And, not only have we been called. We’ve been given authority as well.

A little later in the Gospel of Mark, in the third chapter, we hear the story of Jesus appointing the twelve apostles to join him in his ministry and to be sent out to proclaim the Good News and to have authority to cast out demons.

So, you see, like Jesus in the synagogue in Capernaum and like those first disciples of Jesus, who were sent out and given authority to cast out demons, we’ve been given authority to bring healing to the world through the proclamation of the Gospel and to cast out unclean spirits in whatever form they may take. Some that come to mind include: the sin of racism and white supremacy. Violence and prejudice toward our LGTBQ brothers and sisters. Unfair treatment of those who live on the margins—the poor, the homeless, and the hungry; those with different religious beliefs and backgrounds; and those who come to us seeking refuge from violence and oppression in other parts of the world.

My friends, unclean spirits come in a variety of shapes and sizes.

“Be silent, and come out of him,” Jesus says to the unclean spirit in our Gospel lesson for today.

What will our words of healing be? What words and actions will we use to cast out the unclean spirits of our own time and bring healing to the world?

Prayer without action isn’t enough. Yes, we need to say our prayers, but even more importantly, we need to live them. A couple of years ago, as I was attending an evangelism conference sponsored by the Episcopal Church, I heard our Presiding Bishop say these words: “Sometimes when we’re faced with tragedy and heartbreak, we’re tempted to say, ‘All we can do is pray.’ But, that’s not true. You have a heart. Use it. You have a heart that has the ability to break open. Let it. Let it break open, and allow the love of Jesus to flow through it.”

I leave you with these last few lines from the inaugural poem, “The Hill We Climb,” by Amanda Gorman.

When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid,
the new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Amen.

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A video of this sermon is available below, beginning at the 16:00 mark.