Category Archives: Sermons

A Sermon for Maundy Thursday
March 28, 2024

Text: John 13:1-35

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He eventually comes to Peter.

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

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

Do you find yourself in Peter’s place?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Jesus washed Judas’ feet, too.

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

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

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

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

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

Do you find yourself in the place of Judas?

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

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

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

Amen.

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

Text: Mark 14:1-15:47

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

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

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

The Lord be with you. And also with you.

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

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

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

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

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

Let’s give it a try.

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

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

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

So, let’s say it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
February 14, 2024

Text: Psalm 103:8-14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Start by saying “thank you” to God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text: Luke 2:1-20

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

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

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

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

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

And, then disaster struck!

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

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

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

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

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

And, I think I know the reason why.

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

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

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

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

There are probably more reasons than we can count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, I want to share it with you today.

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

***

THE STORY OF ST. NICHOLAS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Think about it for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love that phrase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text: Mark 13:24-37

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But waiting is hard, isn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, my invitation to you this Advent is this—

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

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

Text: Matthew 5:1-12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text: Matthew 21:23-32

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

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

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

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

But what, exactly, is the Jesus Movement?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text: Matthew 18:21-35

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know it isn’t easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks be to God. Amen.

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

Text: Romans 13:8-14

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember other details of that day as well.

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

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

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

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

Where were you on 9/11?

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

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

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

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

It’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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