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Walk Humbly

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
February 1, 2026

Texts: Micah 6:1-8; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; 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.

Sometimes the readings we hear in church feel kind of random, don’t they? We find them interesting and meaningful, but sometimes it’s a stretch to figure out how God is speaking to us through them.

They can feel like words meant for another time and place, and we have to work a little harder to connect them to what’s actually going on in our lives right now.

And then there are Sundays like this one—where the readings practically reach out and grab us. They don’t feel distant or random at all.

They feel close. Maybe uncomfortably close—naming the tension, the fear, and the longing we’re living with right now, and inviting us to hear what God might be trying to say in the midst of it all.

Let’s start with our lesson this morning from Micah.

Micah was a prophet who lived eight hundred years before Christ, speaking to the people of Judah during a time of political unrest and social breakdown.

On the surface, things looked fine. People were worshiping. The rituals were being followed. The outward signs of faith were all there.

But underneath it all, something was deeply wrong.

The powerful were taking advantage of the weak. Justice depended on who you were and how much influence you had. Trust between people had eroded. And many were wondering whether God had abandoned them—or whether they had wandered away from God without even noticing.

Micah doesn’t spend much time arguing. He asks a simple question that cuts straight to the heart:

What does the Lord require of you?

The answer is simple, but it isn’t easy.

Do justice.

Love kindness.

Walk humbly with your God.

I think that last phrase really matters.

Walk humbly.

Not stand proudly. Not needing to have the perfect answer to every question. Not needing to be right while someone else is wrong.

Just walking—step by step—aware that we don’t see the whole picture and trusting that we need God’s guidance along the way.

Micah is reminding the people—and us—that faithfulness isn’t about saying the right things or performing the right rituals.

It’s about how we live.

It’s about how we treat others. How we carry ourselves through uncertain times.

Then, in our second reading, we hear from Paul, writing to the church in Corinth.

This was a divided church.

People were arguing about leaders and loyalties.

Everyone was convinced they were right.

Paul doesn’t deny the disagreements are real. But, he refuses to let them define the church.

Instead, he points them to the cross.

God’s wisdom, Paul says, doesn’t look like winning arguments or gaining power. It looks like self-giving, sacrificial love. It looks foolish to the world—but it’s the way God brings us to eternal life.

And then we come to our Gospel lesson this morning from Matthew, which takes place not long after he calls his first disciples.

Jesus begins his public ministry by climbing a mountain, sitting down with his disciples, and speaking to a crowd of ordinary people.

He doesn’t start with a list of instructions or warnings.

He starts with blessing.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are the meek.

In other words, blessed are the people who feel overwhelmed, grieving, unsure, and worn down.

Friends, I can’t think of a more fitting passage of Scripture for us today.

Because we’re living in a time right now when many people feel exactly that way.

There is unrest in our country.

Real fear. Real grief.

We see violence in the news. We hear stories that leave us shaken. We feel the strain in our communities and in our conversations.

And even when events happen far away—like what’s been happening in Minnesota—they affect us. We feel it in our bodies. It weighs heavily on our souls.

Some people are grieving deeply.

Some are afraid.

Some are angry.

Some are confused and trying to figure out how to be faithful to God right now.

And some are simply tired.

In a moment like this, it can feel risky to say anything out loud.

Any word can sound like choosing sides or being “too political.”

But the church’s calling isn’t to stay silent all the time—or to stir things up for the sake of it.

Our calling is to tell the truth about the world God loves and to listen carefully for where the Spirit is leading us.

And this is where one line from the Beatitudes really matters:

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.”

That hunger—that longing for things to be made right—is something many of us feel.

We want the world to be a safer and kinder place. We want peace. We want all people to be treated with dignity and respect. We want truth to matter. We want harm to stop.

That longing can show up in lots of ways.

It can sound like grief. Or frustration. Or determination. Or even weariness.

In the Bible, righteousness isn’t about being morally superior or having all the answers. It’s about living in right relationship—with God, with one another, and with the world God loves.

To hunger and thirst for righteousness is to care deeply about how people are treated and to refuse to accept injustice as “just the way things are”.

Jesus doesn’t shame that longing.

He blesses it.

And he promises that it won’t be wasted.

Then Jesus adds another word that may be even harder for us to hear right now:

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Not people who avoid conflict.
Not people who pretend everything is fine.
Peacemakers.

Peacemaking can be slow work.

It requires patience.

It means staying present when it would be easier to walk away.

It means speaking honestly without cruelty and listening without immediately trying to defend ourselves.

In a world that constantly pushes us to choose sides, peacemakers choose not to be driven by fear or anger, but to stay grounded in love and faithfulness.

Earlier this week, our Bishop shared a message with the Diocese, acknowledging how heavy this moment feels and how unsure many people are about what faithfulness looks like right now.

If you haven’t had a chance to watch the video or read the Bishop’s message, I encourage you to do so.

He reminded us that prayer is not passive.

Prayer is how we listen to God.

It’s how God shapes our hearts.

It’s how we find the courage to take the next faithful step—even when we don’t see the whole path ahead.

Prayer prepares us to speak and act with love.

And that feels right to me, especially in a time like this.

Jesus doesn’t promise that following him will make life easier.

But he does promise that God is present—especially with those who mourn, with those who hunger and thirst for what’s right, and with those who work for peace.

So maybe the invitation for us today is simple.

Walk humbly with your God.

Pay attention to the hunger you feel for what’s right.

Pray—not to escape the world, but to let God open our hearts so that love might flow through us.

And trust that, even now, God is working to make all things new.

May we be a people who take Jesus seriously.

May we refuse to let fear or despair have the final word.

And may we be guided—day by day—not by anger, but by love.

Let us pray:

Gracious and loving God, we come before you this morning carrying many things in our hearts. We bring you the weight of this moment—the unrest we see around us, the fear and anxiety we feel within us, the grief borne by families and communities whose lives have been forever changed.

Be near to those who mourn. Comfort those who grieve sudden loss. Hold close those who are afraid for their safety, their future, or their loved ones. Be especially present with those who feel unseen, unheard, or forgotten.

We pray for our nation in this troubled time. Where anger is loud, teach us to listen. Where fear has taken root, plant courage and compassion. Where truth has been distorted or dismissed, guide us back to what is honest and life-giving.

Give wisdom to those who hold authority and responsibility. Grant humility to leaders, restraint to those with power, and a shared commitment to justice, dignity, and peace.

We pray for your Church, called to bear witness to your love in a divided world. Keep us from despair. Guard us against dehumanizing one another. Teach us how to speak with truth and gentleness, how to listen with patience, and how to walk humbly with you.

Shape us into peacemakers—not passive, not silent, but faithful, courageous, and rooted in love.

We pray for all who hunger and thirst for righteousness. For those longing for things to be made right. For those working quietly for healing, reconciliation, and hope. For those unsure of their next step, waiting for clarity.

Meet that hunger, O God. Fill it not with certainty, but with wisdom. Not with haste, but with courage. Not with fear, but with love.

Strengthen us by your Spirit to trust that you are at work even now—in grief and in hope, in uncertainty and in faithfulness. Embolden us, O God, not by fear or anger, but by love shaped through prayer, humility, and faithful action. All this we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace and the One who calls us all children of God.

Amen.

Andrew’s Witness

A Sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
Service of Installation for the Brotherhood of St. Andrew
January 18, 2026

Text: John 1:29-42

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.

Have you ever had something happen to you that was so exciting that you just had to share it with someone? Maybe it was a trip you took to a place you had never been before. Or maybe it was a delicious meal at a new restaurant or a movie you recently watched that moved you. Or maybe it was an experience that changed your life in some way or opened your eyes to new ideas and new perspectives.

And after it was all said and done, you just couldn’t wait to share it with someone—anyone—maybe a close friend or family member or even a simple post on your Facebook page.

I’ve had plenty of experiences like that before—some big, some small—and as I was reflecting on my sermon for this week, I came to realize that the most life-changing experiences of my life—the ones I’ve wanted to share with the most people—all have to do with camp.

Whether it was attending a Cursillo weekend or leading a week-long summer camp program down at Camp Beckwith for a bunch of kids, those are the experiences that come to mind first.

Those are the ones where I come home renewed and energized and excited to share stories about what happened and why it was so meaningful.

We’ve all had moments and experiences like that.

We’ve all experienced things that bring us so much joy that it’s hard to keep it to ourselves.

And I think—at least at some level—it’s because we have this basic, human instinct to share things about ourselves with other people—especially those things that excite us.

When you think about it, it makes perfect sense.

God created us for relationship, and one of the best ways we can build relationships with other people is by sharing with them the things that bring us the most joy—the things that matter to us most.

I want us to hold on to that idea because I think it has a lot to do with today’s Gospel lesson and the call of the first disciples.

Today’s reading comes from the first chapter of John’s Gospel.

Now, John doesn’t begin his Gospel with the story of Jesus’ birth, like it does in Matthew and Luke.

It begins with a beautiful, poetic prologue—and speaks of Jesus as the Word of God which came down from heaven to be a light for the whole world—the True Light that no darkness can overcome.

And from there, John 1 quickly moves to the introduction of John the Baptist, the one who was sent by God as a witness to testify to the Light so that all might believe through him.

And that’s where our reading picks up today.

Today’s lesson begins, not with Jesus at the center, but with John the Baptist standing at the Jordan River.

There’s a large crowd gathered around him.

People have come from far and wide to hear him preach, to confess their sins, and to be baptized.

There’s a sense of urgency in his message—a sense that something new is about to happen.

And yet, for all the attention to be focused on him, he’s very clear about one thing: it’s not about him.

Again and again, John the Baptist tells the crowd that he’s been called by God to be a witness. His only purpose is to draw everyone’s focus toward another—toward the one who is coming after him.

And then one day, Jesus walks by.

John sees him approaching and says the words that set everything else in motion: “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

With that simple declaration, the attention turns toward Jesus. John steps back so that Jesus can step forward and begin his ministry.

Two of John’s disciples hear what he says, and instead of staying where they are, they decide to follow Jesus.

They walk behind him, unsure of what they’re looking for, but captivated none the less.

Then, Jesus turns and asks a simple question.

“What are you looking for?”

And instead of answering Jesus, they ask him, “Rabbi, where are you staying?”

Jesus doesn’t offer any explanation.

He simply says, “Come and see.”

One of those disciples is Andrew.

John doesn’t tell us exactly why Andrew and the other disciple decided to follow Jesus.

The Gospel gives us no explanation—only the sense that something amazing must have happened in their encounter with Jesus that changed their lives forever.

Because what’s the very first thing Andrew does after meeting Jesus? 

He goes and finds his brother, Simon, and brings him to meet Jesus.

Andrew doesn’t keep the Good News to himself.

He shares it.

He invites his brother to come and see for himself this amazing thing that’s happened.

Andrew serves as an example for all of us of how we’re called to share the Gospel.

We don’t have to try and sell it.

We don’t have to persuade anyone or try to convince them with prepared speeches.

All we have to do is extend the invitation.

“Come and see.”

Come and see for yourself the love of Jesus and how following him will change your life.

It’s the example of Andrew that I want to lift up today—not only because it’s in our lesson from John but also because this morning, we’re celebrating the birth of a new ministry at St. Mary’s—the Brotherhood of St. Andrew.

And I thought I might take a few minutes this morning to share with you a little bit about this new ministry and how it all began.

On November 30, 1883–The Feast of St. Andrew—a small group of young men gathered at St. James Church in Chicago.

They gathered, not to start a new group or to launch a movement, but to simply pray together and study Scripture.

Most of them were teenagers, around seventeen years old. They weren’t priests. They weren’t church leaders. They were young men, trying to figure out what it means to follow Jesus in the world around them.

They believed that the work of evangelism—the work of inviting others into a relationship with Jesus—belonged not just to clergy and missionaries, but to all Christians.

Their vision was simple. They didn’t use fancy programs or strategies. They relied on relationships. They prayed together. They studied the Bible together, and they invited others to join them.

In other words, they followed the example of Andrew.

And something remarkable happened.

That small group of men who gathered for prayer and Bible study quickly grew. Within just a few years, other groups started forming across the country.

Young men and boys gathered in churches, homes, and meeting halls to pray, study the Bible, and encourage one another in faith. They took seriously the idea that the way they live their lives—their words and actions—should point others toward Christ.

Within a decade, this movement had spread beyond the United States into other countries like England, Japan, and even China. What began as a handful of teenagers praying together on St. Andrew’s Day became an international movement of Christian witness and discipleship.

By 1908, the movement was formally incorporated by an act of the United States Congress and signed into law by President Theodore Roosevelt. It read: “The sole object of said corporation shall be the spread of Christ’s Kingdom among men.”

That movement came to be known as the Brotherhood of St. Andrew—named not after a renowned preacher or theologian, but after a disciple whose quiet faith was lived out by inviting others to experience the love of God in Christ Jesus.

That legacy continues today at St. Mary’s as we begin a new chapter of the Brotherhood and install our first members.

Today, we’re affirming a new call to ministry:

A call to prayer.

A call to service.

A call to grow deeper in faith and discipleship.

And a call to live lives that faithfully and authentically point others toward Jesus.

Our new Brothers aren’t being called to be perfect.

They’re being invited to follow Jesus more deeply—and to help create a space where others can follow him, too.

Like Andrew, they’re being called to trust that faith grows, not through pressure or fear, but through relationship. That Christ is revealed not only through words, but through lives shaped by love, humility, and service.

And the truth is, dear friends, is that this calling is not just for the Brothers of St. Andrew.

It’s for all of us.

All of us have people in our lives—family members, friends, neighbors, coworkers—people who know us well enough to know what matters to us most. People who are watching the way we go about our lives to see how faith shapes the way we live.

We may not be called to stand in a pulpit or lead a Bible study.

We might not think of ourselves as evangelists.

But we can live our lives open and honest enough that others become curious.

Curious enough to ask questions about where we find such joy and peace in our lives.

Curious enough to wonder why this Jesus is so important and how he’s changed our lives forever.

In the words of that old, beloved hymn:

“If you cannot preach like Peter and you cannot pray like Paul, just tell the love of Jesus, how he died to save us all.”

All it takes is one simple invitation.

“Come and see.”

Amen.

Righteous Joseph

A Sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas Day (Year A)
January 4, 2026

Text: Matthew 2: 13-15, 19-23

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.

One of the quiet gifts of the Christmas season is the story of Joseph. He doesn’t say very much. He never gives a speech. He doesn’t ask questions out loud.

And yet, without Joseph’s faithfulness—without his willingness to listen and respond to God’s call—the story of Jesus’ birth unfolds very differently.

The author of Matthew calls Joseph righteous.

But his righteousness isn’t the same as certainty or control. It doesn’t mean having all the answers or knowing how everything will turn out.

It looks like paying attention. Like someone who listens carefully for God’s voice and is willing to act—even when it disrupts his plans and changes the life he thought he was going to have.

Joseph’s righteousness is quiet and steady.

But it’s also costly.

From the very beginning, Joseph is asked to set aside what he wants in order to care for Mary and the child entrusted to him.

Think back to the Gospel we heard a couple weeks ago on the Fourth Sunday of Advent.

At the beginning of Matthew’s version of the Christmas story, Joseph has learned that Mary is pregnant, and he knows the child is not his.

But Matthew also tells us that he’s righteous—and unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace.

He considers dismissing her quietly—a path that seems reasonable given the circumstances and the expectations of his community.

It would’ve been a way for him to step back and find his way out of a difficult and confusing situation—a plan that would allow him to protect Mary and preserve his own reputation at the same time.

But before Joseph acts on what seems reasonable, God steps in.

In a dream, an angel says to him, “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

Joseph is asked to trust in something he doesn’t understand and to place his life at the service of what God is doing.

That moment sets the pattern for everything that follows.

Joseph wakes up from the dream, and he does what the angel of the Lord commanded him.

He doesn’t fully understand.

But he responds.

That’s what righteousness looks like in Matthew’s Gospel—not perfection or certainty, but listening and responding to God.

In today’s Gospel, we see the same pattern—but the tone shifts in a dramatic way.

The wise men—who we’ll hear about in a couple of days on the Feast of the Epiphany—have just left the Holy Family.

Their visit, which was meant to honor a newborn king, has also stirred up fear and violence.

Word has reached Herod that a child has been born who is called King. 

And Herod, whose power is built on fear and force, responds the only way a tyrant knows how—with cruelty.

So Joseph receives another dream.

Matthew tells us that an angel appears and warns him to take the child and his mother and flee to the land of Egypt.

As one author wrote, this dream may not have been comforting or reassuring.

It may have been closer to a nightmare.

Perhaps Joseph was shown what was about to happen in Bethlehem.

Perhaps he sensed that staying would place Mary and the child in terrible danger.

Perhaps the dream carried not peace, but urgency—the kind that wakes you from sleep and leaves your heart racing.

Get up. Take the child and his mother, and leave as fast as you can.

Joseph isn’t told how long the danger will last.

He isn’t told what life in Egypt will look like.

He isn’t promised comfort or certainty.

Once again, Joseph is asked to leave behind what he knows and to trust that God is speaking even when the message is frightening and unclear.

And once again, Joseph listens.

Matthew tells us that he gets up in the middle of the night, takes the child and his mother, and leaves Bethlehem.

He does what the angel of the Lord commands him. He moves before questions can settle in. He moves because it’s what God asks him to do.

And because Joseph listens, the child lives.

Not long after, the Church remembers what happens next.

Every year, on December 28, we commemorate the Holy Innocents—the children of Bethlehem who didn’t escape Herod’s cruelty, whose lives were taken by violence beyond their parents’ control.

Their story is one we’d rather skip past, especially during the season of Christmas. And yet Matthew refuses to let us look away.

Matthew’s version of the Christmas story brings into focus a hard truth: even in the midst of Christmas joy, Jesus is born into a dark world. A world where fear still drives evil and cruelty. A world where the innocent still suffer and those who cling to power will sometimes do unspeakable things to protect it.

The story of the Holy Innocents reminds us that the brokenness of the world is not confined to the past.

The names and faces may change, but evil still exists.

And so does God’s response—not through revenge or violence, but through presence and faithfulness and the quiet, courageous protection of life whenever it’s threatened.

Joseph’s obedience doesn’t erase the tragedy of the Holy Innocents.

But it becomes part of God’s response to the darkness.

God doesn’t overcome Herod with force.

God saves a child through the faithfulness of one man.

And that matters—even for us today.

Christmas is the season when the True Light is revealed to the world.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”

But Matthew reminds us that the Light doesn’t erase the darkness all at once. Instead, the Light enters it. The Light moves through it. The Light is carried forward—often quietly and at great cost.

Joseph doesn’t just bear witness to the Light.

He responds to it and shapes his life around it.

And for those of us who’ve been baptized, that same Light burns deep within us. It calls us to live differently in the world, to order our lives around love, trust, and faithfulness, even when that faithfulness leads us to places we don’t fully understand.

That call feels timely as we stand at the beginning of a new year.

2025 has come and gone. And as our Bishop recently reminded us in his Christmas Eve message, “What’s been done has been done. Let it be.”

The beginning of a new year is a time when many of us naturally reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going.

We look back on joys and losses, on things that went as planned and things that didn’t.

And we look ahead to the new year—thinking about what we want to change, what we want to do better, and what we hope the next year will hold.

Many of us make New Year’s resolutions. We set goals. We imagine a better version of ourselves.

And those can be good and meaningful practices.

But perhaps the deeper question for us this year is not simply, “What do I want to accomplish?”

Perhaps the deeper question is, “How is God calling me to live more faithfully?”

What is God asking me to listen to right now, in this chapter of my life?

What is God asking me to protect?

What has God placed before me that I didn’t choose, but can’t ignore?

Like Joseph, we may not be given the whole picture. We may not know exactly where faithfulness will lead. We may not be promised comfort or clarity.

But we can trust that responding in love is never wasted.

Joseph didn’t know everything.

But he listened.

And time and again—when the angel spoke and the path ahead was unclear—Joseph did what God asked him to do.

That’s what righteousness looks like.

As we move into this new year, may we learn from Joseph’s quiet courage. May we listen for God’s voice—not only when it comforts us, but also when it‘s the loving thing to do. And may we have the faith to respond, shaping our lives around the True Light that’s been revealed to us in the babe lying in the manger.

Amen.

In Those Days

A Sermon for the Nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ
Wednesday, December 24, 2025

Gracious and loving God,
we thank you for this holy night
and for the gift of your Son, Jesus.
As we gather to celebrate his birth,
open our hearts to your peace,
fill us with your hope,
and remind us of your love for the world.
Be present with us now,
and draw us closer to you and to one another,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

Christmas Eve has a way of pulling us back in time. Each year, we gather to worship on this night. We hear a familiar story—the same one we heard just a few moments ago from Luke’s Gospel. We sing familiar songs—the ones we look forward to singing all year long. We remember something that happened long ago, in a far-off place.

And if we’re not careful, Christmas can start to feel like something we simply look back on—a beautiful story from the past, treasured and retold, but safely contained in history.

But the truth is, dear friends, Christmas isn’t just something that happened a long time ago.

It’s something that keeps happening. Christ continues to be born among us. Jesus continues to be present.

God continues to break into our lives—often in ways that are quiet and unexpected—right in the middle of real human experience.

I’ve been reminded of that recently in my own ministry as a priest, and tonight, I want share with you a few examples of that—a few stories about how God has been working through my life and the life of this church.

Earlier this month—at the beginning of December—I was invited to be the guest speaker at a service of remembrance for the Angel of Hope.

For those of you who don’t know, the Angel of Hope is a bronze statue here in Andalusia, dedicated to the memory of deceased children in Covington County.

It’s located downtown near Robinson Park, and each year in December there’s a service of remembrance for families in our community who’ve lost a child.

I had never been to the service before, and I didn’t really know what to expect. So, when I was invited to speak, I prepared what I hoped were the right words, a message that might offer some measure of comfort.

That night, the weather was too cold to gather outside by the statue where the service is normally held. So instead, we gathered in a small room inside the Adult Activity Center.

Families filled the room.

And once the service began, it became clear that this gathering mattered deeply to those who were there.

It was a place where people could remember their loved ones without pretending everything was okay.

A place where they could grieve without feeling embarrassed or having to explain why they were there.

A place where no one rushed them through their pain.

I offered a message, and we made it through the rest of the service.

And what stayed with me most from that experience was the sense of community and genuine care that people had for each other.

People sitting next to each other, side by side.

Holding space for one another.

Allowing grief—and even healing—to take place.

And in that small room, in the midst of heavy and tender hearts, Christ was present—not as an easy answer or a quick fix, but as comfort and compassion. As Emmanuel—God with us.

Christ was being born there.

A week before that, at the end of November, we gathered at the church for Joe’s Community Dinner for Thanksgiving.

Many of you know this ministry well.

Every year we offer a hot meal to anyone in our community who needs it—those who want to eat with us in the Parish Hall, or take a plate to go, or have a meal delivered.

It’s one of the ways we try to extend the hospitality of Christ beyond these walls—and we’ll do the same tomorrow morning on Christmas Day.

What you may not know is that sometimes the phone calls we receive from people asking for delivery come with stories.

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, one woman called the church office asking to receive a meal delivered to her home, and I had the chance to talk with her for a few minutes.

She told me how important this meal was to her.

I could hear in her voice just how much it meant when she said how thankful she was for St. Mary’s—because without it, she wouldn’t have had a Thanksgiving meal at all.

It was a simple thing.

A hot meal. A quick delivery.

And yet, for her, it meant so much.

It meant connection.

It meant being remembered.

In that phone call and in that shared meal, Christ was present—quietly, humbly, without any special attention.

Christ was being born there.

Then just last week, we were at Laundry Love, down the street at the laundromat.

On the third Thursday of each month, a few of us from the church show up with laundry detergent, dryer sheets, and rolls of quarters, and we help people get started with their laundry.

It may not seem like much.

It’s small, simple, and easy to overlook.

But it’s one more way we can share the love of Christ with our neighbors—especially those who need it most.

That night, I met a couple I hadn’t met before. They seemed kind, but clearly struggling.

I introduced myself, told them I was the priest at St. Mary’s, and explained why we were there. They had already washed their clothes, but I offered to help them get started with the dryers.

After the dryer began to run, the woman came up to me and asked if I would pray for her.

And right there, in the middle of the laundromat, we stopped and prayed. When I was done, she smiled, thanked me, and walked away.

Not long after that, the man came up and asked me the same question.

“Will you pray for me?”

I asked him if there was anything specific he’d like for me to pray for, and he shared with me that he was having a difficult time in his relationship and that he had done some things he wasn’t proud of.

He asked me if I would pray for God to forgive him.

So I took his hands, and we prayed—right there between the washers and dryers. When we finished, he smiled, thanked me, and walked away.

Looking back on that night, what stayed with me most wasn’t the prayer, but the ministry of presence—and the gift of being able to stop and listen and stand with someone in a moment of need.

In that laundromat, Christ was present in mercy, in forgiveness, and grace.

Not in a sanctuary or church, but an ordinary place.

Christ was being born there, too.

I wanted to share these stories with you because they remind us that Christmas isn’t just something we remember—it’s something we continue to live.

The story of Jesus’ birth doesn’t begin with “once upon a time,” like a fairy tale.

It begins with three simple words:

“In those days…”

In those days, a decree went out from the emperor of Rome that everyone should be registered.

In those days, Mary and Joseph made the long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem.

In those days, she gave birth to her firstborn son and named him Jesus.

In those days…

A particular time and place.

With real people and real hardships.

Jesus wasn’t born in a perfect world.

He was born into a world just as it was—crowded and uncertain, vulnerable and weary.

God didn’t wait for the right moment.

God didn’t wait for peace and stability.

God stepped in, and gave us the most precious gift.

That’s the miracle of Christmas.

God shows up in the midst of real life and real circumstances.

Jesus was born in those days—but the story didn’t end there.

Christmas continues whenever Christ is made present through love, compassion, and forgiveness—whenever we show up for one another and make room for God to work through us.

Which is why it matters, now more than ever, that we continue to do the work that God has called us to do as the Church—by showing up in the lives of those around us and making the love of Christ known in the world.

The late theologian and spiritual writer, Howard Thurman, once wrote that when the song of the angels is stilled and the star in the sky is gone, the work of Christmas begins…

to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among others,
to make music in the heart.

That’s how Christmas keeps happening.

In those days, God came among us as a child.

And even now, God still comes—through acts of compassion and generosity, through presence and the love we share with others.

You don’t have to travel to Bethlehem to witness Christmas.

You can see it whenever a grieving parent is loved and cared for.

Whenever the needs of the most vulnerable are met with kindness and generosity.

Whenever words of forgiveness are spoken.

Whenever someone is reminded they’re not alone.

In those days, God came among us.

And in these days, God is still with us.

And that’s the good news of Christmas.

Amen.

Faith Without Fear

A Sermon for the Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 27C)
November 9, 2025

Text: Luke 20:27-38

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.

This past week, my family and I went to the Peanut Festival in Dothan. It’s been several years since we’ve been to the Peanut Festival, and we had a wonderful time! I love a good fair!

When I go to the fair, I feel like a kid again. There’s just something about it—the lights, the sounds, the smell of kettle corn and funnel cakes in the air. It just makes me happy.

And I love all the rides! Chelsea doesn’t like that part as much as I do, but I always have a great time.

After we rode a few rides and ate some dinner, we decided to explore some of the exhibit halls for a bit—just to take a break from all the noise and look around. We always enjoy seeing the arts and crafts displays and all the booths from local vendors and businesses.

As we walked through one of the exhibit walls, tucked between two other displays, I noticed a local church booth.

They were there handing out brochures and trying to get people to stop and learn more about their church, which seems harmless enough, doesn’t it?

It’s not exactly my favorite kind of evangelism, but I understood what they were trying to do.

What caught my eye, though, was this enormous sign right in the middle of their display.

It said, in big, bold letters: “Are you 25%, 75%, or 100% sure you’re going to heaven?”

Now, we’ve all seen signs or billboards like that before, haven’t we?

Needless to say, we didn’t stop to talk, and I doubt many others did either.

That sign has stuck stuck with me over the past week.

Because it says a lot about the kind of message that so many people have grown up hearing from the Church—that faith is about certainty, that it’s about being 100% sure you’re going to heaven when you die. As if faith is some kind of test you have to pass in order to be “saved” by God.

And underneath that kind of message, whether we realize it or not, there’s this image of a God that’s distant and angry and quick to punish—a God who’s keeping score, just waiting for us to mess up.

That kind of faith can make people live in fear.

Fear of being wrong all the time. Fear of not believing the right way. Fear of not being a good enough Christian.

And for a lot of us, that’s the kind of faith we grew up with—one focused almost entirely on fear and what happens when we die, instead of how God is calling us to live our lives right now.

Heaven was the goal, and fear was the motivator.

Now, I’m not saying all of this to be overly critical about that church at the Peanut Festival or any other church that preaches a similar message. I’m sure they were good people, just doing what they felt called to do.

But, the problem with that kind of message they’re sending out is that fear and love can’t grow in the same soil.

A faith built on fear can only stand for so long before it crumbles, which is why I believe a lot of people have walked away from the Church—not because they’ve stopped believing in God, but because they can’t find God in the kind of fear-based religion they were given.

Fear makes us desperate for certainty—desperate to have all the answers figured out.

Love invites us to experience the mystery of God.

Fear says, “You’d better get it right, or else!”

Love says, “Even when you get it wrong, you still belong to God.”

I think that’s what Jesus is trying to show us in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke.

In our story this morning, Jesus is approached by a group of Sadducees—religious leaders from a sect of Judaism who didn’t believe in things like the afterlife or the resurrection.

They followed the Law of Moses to the letter and rejected anything they couldn’t see or prove.

For them, this life was all there was.

When you died, that was it. Your only chance at living on was through your family name and the legacy you left behind.

Their hope was rooted only in things they could see and control—things like power, wealth, and reputation.

So, they come to Jesus with a strange question—more like a riddle—about a woman who marries seven brothers, one after another, each dying before she has children.

And they ask him, “In the resurrection, whose wife will she be?”

Now, they’re not asking because they’re curious.

They’re asking because they want to make Jesus sound foolish.

You can almost hear the tone in their voices. “See, Jesus? The resurrection doesn’t make sense. You can’t possibly believe this is true.”

But, Jesus refuses to play along.

He doesn’t try to explain to them what heaven looks like or offer any simple answers.

Instead, he tells them that the life of the resurrection isn’t just a continuation of what we already know—it’s something entirely new and different.

“The people of this age marry and are given in marriage,” Jesus says, “but those who are considered worthy of the resurrection neither marry nor are given in marriage. Indeed, they cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God.”

Now, I want to pause here for a moment, because sometimes people hear this passage and worry that Jesus is saying that marriage doesn’t matter.

But that’s not what he means at all.

Marriage is one of the most sacred and beautiful ways we can learn what God’s love looks like.

It teaches us about commitment, sacrifice, and humility.

What Jesus is saying here is that in the resurrection, even our deepest and most important human relationships—including marriage—will be transformed.

The love that holds two people together in the covenant of marriage will be made complete in the life of the world to come.

In the resurrection, God’s perfect love will bind everyone together.

The Sadducees are asking the wrong kind of question. They want certainty. They want Jesus to explain what heaven looks like in ways they can understand.

But, Jesus wants them to see that the life of God—and the life of the resurrection—can’t be explained in human terms or contained by logic. They’re a mystery.

The Sadducees want control.


esus invites them to put their trust in God.

And that’s the real difference here.

The Sadducees’ version of faith left no room for mystery.

But, with Jesus, faith is all about the mystery of God

 It’s full of wonder, hope, and the promise that God’s love and life are stronger than death.

Faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about putting our trust in God.

It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about putting our hope in the one who does—the one who created us and promised to never leave us.

And when we live that way—when we really put our trust in God —something beautiful happens in the process.

The fear that once ruled over our lives starts to lose its grip.

The need to always prove ourselves gives way to joy and peace.

Because a faith rooted in love knows that God isn’t sitting up in heaven looking for reasons to punish us.

God wants to redeem us.

As our bishop often says, “Your life is not a test to get into heaven.”

God isn’t keeping score.

God is faithful.

God doesn’t wait for us to have it all together before offering grace.

God meets us right where we are—in our questions, in our doubts, in our confusion—and says, “You are my beloved.”

That’s what Jesus shows us, again and again.

Even when we lose our way, God’s mercy never runs out.

And when we start to really believe that—when we trust that God’s deepest desire is not to condemn us but to redeem us—we are set free.

Free to stop living in fear.

Free to stop worrying about whether we’re “100% sure.”

Free to enjoy this life—the one God has already given us—as a precious gift.

Now, that doesn’t mean we stop caring about how we live.

It doesn’t mean we stop growing in our faith or trying to do better when we fall short.

But, it does mean that we live out of love, not fear.

Because God doesn’t want us to spend our lives anxious and guilt-ridden.

God wants us to live lives full of joy, and peace, and gratitude—lives that reflect the goodness of the one who made us and called us good from the very beginning.

Faith will always be a mystery.

And that’s okay.

Because the heart of that mystery is love—a love stronger than death and deeper than our fears, a love that goes beyond anything we could ever ask for or imagine.

So, maybe the next time we see a sign asking if we’re 100% sure we’re going to heaven”—or something like it—we can smile and say, “I don’t know, but I am 100% sure that God loves me and will never let me go.”

Amen.

The Courage to Say Yes

A Sermon for the Feast of All Saints (Year C)
The Baptism of Ella Grace O’Neill
Sunday, November 2, 2025

Texts: Ephesians: 1:11-23 and Luke 6:20-31

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.

Today is one of my favorite Sundays of the entire year—All Saints Sunday. It’s one of the Church’s high holy days, a day that shines with great joy and thanksgiving.

On this day, we give thanks for the lives of all the saints—not just the ones we know by name, or the ones etched in stained glass or included in the Church calendar—but for that great cloud of witnesses who’ve gone before us, and for those sitting right here among us.

And if that weren’t enough reason to celebrate, this morning we also get to baptize Ella Grace O’Neill—to mark her with the sign of the cross, to seal her as Christ’s own forever, and to welcome her into the communion of saints.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

When we think of saints, we often imagine holy people from long ago—the kind of people whose stories we read about in Scripture or church history books. People like St. Francis of Assisi, the one who preached to animals; or St. Mary, the mother of our Lord; or St. Peter, who was one of Jesus’ closest friends and trusted disciples.

But the saints aren’t just those who lived heroic lives of faith. 

They’re the ones, as Frederick Buechner once wrote, “whose lives are windows through which the love of God shines.”

The saints are people who, in small and ordinary ways, make room for God’s grace to shine in the darkness—through acts of kindness, through courage, through compassion.

And sometimes, the saints are people who open their hearts to love in ways that are both costly and unexpected.

Some of you already know the story of how Ella—Hope and Willis’s niece—came to live with them last year, but in case you don’t, I want to share a little bit of that story with you.

I asked Hope earlier this week if I could tell part of their story, and she graciously said yes.

Last year around this time, Hope and Willis found themselves in a situation they never expected.

Ella’s mother had already asked if they’d be willing to take her in once she was born. So, they prayed about it, talked it over, and tried to imagine what that kind of change would mean for their family.

And then, suddenly, everything changed.

Ella was born a little earlier than expected, and because of the circumstances of her birth, Hope got a call—the kind of call that doesn’t give you much time to think, only to act.

Hope and her mother went to the hospital.

And when they learned that Ella needed someone to take her home soon—someone who could love her, protect her, and give her a safe place to live—Hope and Willis said yes.

It wasn’t an easy yes.

And yet, if you asked Hope today, she’d tell you there was really only one answer. She might even say that anyone would’ve done the same.

But, we all know that’s not true.

It takes courage—and a deep trust in God—to let love interrupt your life like that. To say yes when it would be so much easier to say, “No, that’s someone else’s responsibility.”

What Hope and Willis did was more than a decision; it was grace in action. It was love made real. It meant rearranging their home, their routines, and their plans for the future.

But that’s how love works sometimes.

It rarely follows our plans and often shows up in the most unexpected ways.

Hope and Willis didn’t say yes for recognition or praise. They said yes because they knew it was the right thing to do.

And because they said yes, Ella is thriving today. She just celebrated her first birthday last week.

She has a place where she belongs and a family who loves her and cares for her.

And I can’t think of a more beautiful image for All Saints Sunday than that—an act of love that embodies the very heart of the Gospel: opening your life so that someone else can have a place to belong.

In our Gospel lesson this morning, we hear Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. Jesus speaks a word of blessing—not to the rich or the powerful, but to the poor and the hungry, to those who mourn and weep.

“Blessed are you,” he says, “when you are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”

“Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.”

It’s one of those passages from Luke that turns everything upside down. Jesus shows us what the kingdom of God really looks like—a world where the last are first, the lowly are lifted up, and love is stronger than death.

And then he goes on to say something even more challenging:

“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you…Give to everyone who begs from you…and do to others as you would have them do to you.”

In other words, love—even when it costs you something.

That’s the kind of love that defines the saints.

It’s not neat or simple. It’s the love that shows up, time and again—the love that sacrifices, forgives, and endures.

That’s the kind of love that’s been shown to Ella through Hope and Willis, through Willow and Rosemary, through their family and friends, and through this community of faith that now promises to help raise her in the knowledge and love of the Lord.

In just a few minutes, we’ll gather around the baptismal font and welcome Ella into the household of God.

We’ll pour water over her head and say the words that have been said for generations:

“I baptize you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Then we’ll make the sign of the cross and say, “Ella, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.”

What that means is that she’ll never be alone.

No matter what happens in her life—no matter where she goes or what she faces—she will always belong to God.

That’s exactly what Paul reminds us in Ephesians: that in Christ “we have obtained an inheritance,” and that we “were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit.”

Baptism is that seal—the outward and visible sign that we belong to God and share in that inheritance with all the saints.

Paul prays that we may know “the hope to which God has called us” and “the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.”

That hope, that inheritance, that love—it’s what we celebrate today in Ella’s baptism.

And that’s not just true for her. It’s true for all of us.

Baptism is God’s promise that we are loved, called, and claimed as Christ’s own—not because we earned it, but because we’re God’s beloved children.

Every one of us, by virtue of our baptism, belongs to the communion of saints—that great cloud of witnesses that stretches across time and space, earth and heaven.

When we talk about the communion of saints, it’s not something abstract or far away. It’s right here—in the people who pray for you, who show up when you’re sick, who cook meals, who sit with you in grief, and who laugh with you in joy.

It’s in people like you and me, like Hope and Willis—the ones who quietly say yes when love calls.

The saints are all around us—sometimes sitting right next to us, even if we don’t see it.

As we celebrate Ella’s baptism this morning, we’re reminded that sainthood isn’t reserved for the extraordinary few.

It’s the calling of every Christian—to live with love, mercy, and faithfulness, even when we stumble along the way.

The saints we remember today in our prayers were not perfect people. They were people who, in their own way, said yes to God’s call.

And so are we.

Each of us has the opportunity, every day, to be a saint in someone else’s life—to make room for others, to forgive, to serve, to listen, and to say yes to God.

Today, as we welcome Ella into this family of faith, we celebrate not only her baptism but the love that made it possible—the love of her family, the love of this church, and above all, the love of God that binds us all together.

On this All Saints Sunday, we remember that saints are not just those whose names fill our history books.

They’re ordinary people who said yes to love.

Today, we see that love in Hope and Willis and their family.

We celebrate that love in Ella Grace.

And we remember that this love is also our calling.

May the God who has claimed us in baptism give us grace to walk as saints—to make room where the world closes doors, to love even when it costs us something, and to shine with the light of Christ wherever we go.

Amen.

Do Not Lose Heart

A Sermon for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24C)
October 19, 2025

Text: Luke 18:1-8

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.

Last weekend, our family went up to Auburn to celebrate Jude’s 14th birthday, and even though the football game didn’t turn out how we hoped, we had a great time visiting with family.

On Sunday morning, Chelsea and I went to worship at St. Dunstan’s—the church that meant so much to us during our college years.

It’s also the church where I was confirmed, where Chelsea and I were married, and where both of our kids were baptized.

It’s the place where I first learned what it meant to belong to a community of faith and where I began to understand that church is more than just a building—it’s a family.

On Sunday morning, when we walked through those big red doors of the church, I was immediately taken back and struck by how alive everything felt.

People were laughing and greeting one another at the door, and when we stepped into the nave, nearly every seat was filled.

The choir was singing with such joy, and you could feel the Holy Spirit moving in that place and a sense that people were genuinely glad to be there.

It hasn’t always been easy, though.

There was a time when there was a lot of uncertainty about the future of St. Dunstan’s—especially a few years ago, when the Bishop of Alabama made the decision to change it from a student chapel to a parish church.

When that happened, the congregation had to learn how to sustain itself financially without the ongoing support of the diocese.

After the former priest retired, they went for a long stretch without a rector.

Finances were extremely tight.

And people wondered whether or not they could keep the doors open.

It was a difficult and uncertain time for that little church.

But through it all, there was always a faithful group of people—some of the same faces I saw last weekend—who refused to give up.

They kept showing up to church. They prayed. They served.

They believed that God still had work for them to do.

And because of their persistence—because of their faithfulness—St. Dunstan’s didn’t just survive.

It has grown and flourished.

When I stood there in that familiar place last Sunday—surrounded by all those people—I couldn’t help but think, “This is what faithfulness looks like.”

For a hundred years, St. Dunstan’s has been rooted in downtown Auburn. And because of the faithfulness of the people there—and the grace of God—it’ll continue to be a place of welcome and hospitality, a place where all are invited to experience the love of God in Christ Jesus for years to come.

Thinking about St. Dunstan’s reminded me so much of our own story here at St. Mary’s.

When I arrived a few years ago, I heard stories about our own season of uncertainty—especially during the pandemic and that long period of transition before I was called to be your rector.

Attendance was down.

People were tired.

There were questions about the future.

But just like those faithful parishioners at St. Dunstan’s, there were people here who refused to give up.

Because they believed in this parish.

They believed in its mission and the work that God was calling us to do, not only for ourselves but for the good of our community.

And because of their persistence, St. Mary’s has not only survived—it too has grown and flourished, and we continue to serve our community in beautiful ways that glorify God and share the love of Christ with others.

So, the word I want us to focus on today—the word I want us to hold on to—is persistence.

In our Gospel reading from Luke, Jesus tells a story about persistence—a story about not giving up, even though that would be the easy thing to do.

There are two characters in this story—a widow and an unjust judge.

The widow keeps coming to the judge, day after day, pleading for justice.

We don’t know exactly why.

Jesus doesn’t give us any details about the widow and her desire for justice, but we do know that she had no power of her own.

In the time of Jesus, widows were among the most vulnerable members of society.

They had no legal standing, no influence, no money to bribe a judge or hire a lawyer.

And yet this widow refuses to be silent.

She keeps coming to the judge, asking for justice. She won’t take “no” for an answer.

And finally, the judge—who doesn’t fear God or care about anyone else—gives in, not because he suddenly wants to do the right thing, but because he’s worn down by this persistent widow.

Now…it’s easy to misunderstand this parable.

At first, it almost sounds like Jesus is saying that if we just keep pestering God and praying hard enough, God will eventually give us what we want—like the judge in our story.

But, that’s not what Jesus is saying here.

He isn’t comparing God to the unjust judge—he’s actually showing the contrast between them.

Jesus says, if even a corrupt and uncaring judge can eventually be moved to act, how much more will a loving and faithful God hear and respond to the prayers of his people?

The point Jesus is trying to make is that we don’t have to wear God down with our prayers.

We don’t have to worry about whether or not God is listening.

God is faithful.

Our persistence in prayer doesn’t change God’s heart.

It changes ours.

It teaches us to put out trust in God—to trust that God’s timing is better than our own and that, even when God feels silent, it doesn’t mean he’s left us.

God is there, even in those moments when it’s hard to see clearly what God is doing.

Luke tells us at the beginning of our lesson that Jesus shared this story “so that we might always pray and not lose heart.”

That’s important for us to remember.

Because when life feels uncertain and we start to lose hope, prayer is what keeps us grounded in the love of God, who promises to be with us through it all.

But, there are times when that kind of faith is hard to hold onto, and many of you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Maybe you’ve been in a long season of grief after the loss of someone you love and you wonder if the pain will ever end.

Maybe you’ve been in a season of disappointment or failure when plans have fallen through, when prayers seem to go unanswered, when the future feels unclear.

Maybe you’ve struggled with doubt, wondering if God is really listening, or even real.

Those are the moments when it’s hardest to pray.

But they’re also the moments when prayer matters most.

Because prayer isn’t about getting the results we want. It’s about staying in relationship with the one who loves us.

When we keep praying—even when the words feel empty—we’re putting our trust in God.

We’re saying, “God, I still believe you’re here and that you love us more than we can imagine.”

That’s what it means to “pray always and not lose heart.”

It’s a kind of faith that isn’t flashy or dramatic. It’s steady, enduring, sometimes quiet, but always faithful.

That’s what I was reminded of at St. Dunstan’s last weekend, and it’s what I see here at St. Mary’s.

Churches go through seasons, just like people do.

There are times of abundance and times of uncertainty.

There are times when everything feels exciting and alive and times when we wonder what the future holds.

But what sustains us through those seasons isn’t programs or budgets or the number of people in the pews.

It’s faith.

It’s the persistent faith of people who keep showing up, day after day, month after month, year after year—

Those who show up when it would be so much easier to stay home.

Those who serve, even when they’re tired;

Those who give, even when times are tight;

Those who love, even when it’s hard.

Faith like that changes a church, and it can change the world.

God honors that persistence, and he works through it, even when we don’t see it happening in the moment.

The story of St. Dunstan’s—and our story here at St. Mary’s—are living testimonies to that truth.

Sometimes we think of faith as something that has to be big or heroic.

But most of the time, faith looks a lot more like the persistent widow in Jesus’ story.

It looks like showing up one more time to pray.

It looks like offering forgiveness one more time.

It looks like serving one more meal at Rice and Beans, or making one more visit to someone in need, or offering one more word of hope when you’re not sure it’ll make a difference.

That’s the kind of faith Jesus calls us to—a faith that holds on to hope, even when the answers to our prayers don’t come quickly or the outcome isn’t what we hoped for.

God is with us in the long seasons of waiting. God hears the prayers we barely manage to whisper. God holds us when our strength runs out.

Maybe today, you find yourself in a season of uncertainty.

Maybe you’ve been praying for something for a long time—for healing, for reconciliation, or even for a clear sense of purpose—and you find yourself tired and frustrated.

Maybe you’ve wondered if faith even matters anymore.

If that’s where you are, remember this—

God hasn’t forgotten you.

God isn’t distant or uncaring like the judge in our story.

God is closer than your next breath.

So, keep praying.

Keep showing up.

And keep trusting that the one who created you and loves you beyond all measure is still at work in your life and will never let you go.

Amen.

The Measure of a Life

A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21C)
September 28, 2025

Text: Luke 16:19-31

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.

Last Sunday, after worship, we walked over to the Parish Hall and found it completely transformed for our Ministry Fair.

The whole room was filled with color and imagination—balloons floating overhead, bright tablecloths draped across the tables, and displays so carefully prepared that you could see the love and creativity poured into every ministry.

There were twenty-two displays in all—everything from our Rice and Beans Ministry to the Altar Guild to the Daughters of the King and even one for our upcoming Fall Festival in November.

It was more than just a room full of sign-up sheets. It was a celebration of giving—of people offering their time, talents, and resources for the sake of God’s Kingdom.

The whole room buzzed with conversation and laughter as people moved from table to table, asking questions and learning about new opportunities to serve.

And I have to tell you, I felt an incredible sense of pride and joy in that moment—pride in seeing so many people participate, and joy in knowing that our parish is alive with a spirit of generosity and service.

I’ve been thinking about it all week!

It was, without question, the best Ministry Fair we’ve had since I’ve been your Rector. And I can’t tell you how much hope that gives me—not just for the strength of our ministries today, but for the future God is shaping for us together as a parish.

I watched people discover ministries they didn’t even know about—someone signing up for the Holiday Jubilee with a smile, others drawn to serve as Lectors or Chalice Bearers.

And you could see it in their faces: signing up to volunteer wasn’t a chore or an obligation.

It was life-giving—a way for them to feel connected to something bigger than themselves.

There was one table, in particular, that really stood out to me.

Now, I don’t like to play favorites, but Deacon Antwon put together an incredible display for our Coat and Blanket Drive.

He probably spent hours working on it—crafting little coats out of construction paper, slipping small treats inside of them, and arranging it all in a way that caught your eye the moment you walked in the room.

It wasn’t just creative. It was inspiring—you could see the love he poured into it.

But more than the display itself, what really stood out for me was what it represented.

Each year during the holidays, we collect new and gently used coats and blankets, and on the third Saturday of December we give them away—not as a separate event, but as part of our Rice and Beans Ministry.

And if you’ve ever been part of that morning, you know it’s special.

Our neighbors come for groceries and a hot breakfast—like they do every month—but before they leave, they also receive the gift of warm clothes and blankets.

It’s a simple act of kindness, but in those moments, you can feel the love of Jesus.

That’s love in action.

That’s what it looks like—not to keep everything for ourselves—but to see the needs of our neighbors and respond with compassion and care.

And that’s exactly the kind of love that Jesus is pointing us to in our Gospel lesson this morning from Luke.

Jesus tells the story of two men.

The first one is rich—so rich that he dresses in fine clothes and feasts every day.

The other is poor, a man named Lazarus, who lies outside the gate—hungry and longing for crumbs from the rich man’s table.

The rich man never notices Lazarus. He goes about his life, day after day—eating and drinking, enjoying his comfort.

Then death comes for both of them.

And suddenly, the great reversal happens.

Lazarus is carried into the arms of Abraham, and the rich man finds himself alone and tormented in the flames.

If you were at church last Sunday, you might remember how the Gospel ended with Jesus saying, “You cannot serve God and wealth.”

He didn’t say wealth is evil. He didn’t say possessions are sinful. What he said was that you can’t serve both—you have to choose which one will hold your heart.

And today’s parable is really just an illustration of what happens when we choose wealth over God, when we choose to live only for ourselves.

The rich man’s life looks good on the outside—fine clothes, a full table, daily feasts. He wants for nothing.

But it’s all focused inward. He serves only himself, and because of that, he doesn’t even see the need right outside his own gate.

That’s the danger Jesus is warning us about.

Not simply that money is tempting, but that it can so easily blind us. It can make us think our security, our comfort, our success is what matters most.

And when we start to believe that, the distance between us and God grows wider and wider.

Now, a lot of people hear this story and immediately think, “Oh, this is what heaven and hell must be like.”

Lazarus dies and goes to paradise, the rich man dies and goes to torment—it seems simple enough.

But that’s not really the point Jesus is making here.

If Jesus wanted to tell us how to get to heaven, he would’ve done it very differently.

Instead, he tells us a parable, and parables are never meant to be taken literally.

They’re stories Jesus uses to shake us up, to shift our perspective, to reveal the truth of God’s Kingdom.

The images Jesus uses would’ve been very familiar to people in his own time.

The idea of a great chasm separating the righteous and the unrighteous was a common theme in Jewish storytelling.

“Abraham’s bosom” was a traditional way of describing God’s care for the faithful.

Even the details about flames and torment weren’t unique to Jesus—they were part of the religious imagination of the time.

Jesus used this imagery because it was familiar, dramatic, and sure to get people’s attention.

But the point is not “here’s what heaven and hell look like.” The point is, “Wake up now, before it’s too late.”

The tragedy of the rich man isn’t simply that he ends up in hell.

The real tragedy is that he lived his whole life blind to the poor man lying right outside his gate, and he didn’t even realize what he was missing.

By the time he finally sees clearly, there’s no way to go back and change it. What’s done is done.

Jesus is reminding us in this story: we only get one life.

One chance to notice, one chance to love, one chance to give. And the time for that isn’t tomorrow—it’s now.

I think about the rich man’s gate.

Day after day, he walked past it, probably without even thinking. And right there, in plain sight, was Lazarus. He wasn’t hidden. He wasn’t invisible. He was right there.

But the rich man never saw him.

And I wonder—who’s lying at our gates? Who are the people we walk past every day without noticing?

Maybe it’s someone in our community who’s hungry.

Maybe it’s a neighbor who’s lonely.

Maybe it’s a friend who’s struggling silently without anyone to talk to.

Maybe it’s even someone in our own family who needs love and attention.

How often do we fail to notice, because we’re too busy, too distracted, or too wrapped up in ourselves?

I think, for me, that’s why last week’s Ministry Fair was so inspiring.

Because it was one way for us to practice giving.

One way for us to practice seeing the needs of those around us and responding.

One way for us to say, “I want to live differently. I want to give. I want to serve. I want to love more deeply.”

The Coat and Blanket Drive is a perfect example, but there are so many others. The needs of our church and the needs of our community never go away. The only question is whether we’ll notice and respond.

And here’s the beautiful thing about giving. When we step forward and offer our gifts—we don’t just help others.

We ourselves are changed. We find joy and peace. We find community. We discover new life in Christ.

I saw that last week at the Ministry Fair.

I see it every month at Rice and Beans. I see it when coats and blankets are handed out in December.

I see it in the life of this parish—every time we choose to live not only for ourselves—but for the sake of others.

The parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus isn’t meant to frighten us. It’s meant to wake us up. To remind us that wealth, comfort, and security are not the measure of a good life—not in God’s eyes.

The true measure is love—love expressed in generosity, love expressed in service, love expressed in our willingness to see and respond to the needs of those around us.

Friends, we only have this one life to live.

And Jesus is clear—the time to notice, the time to love, the time to give is now—not tomorrow.

When we live generously—when we share what God has given us—we don’t just bless others. We are changed in the process. We taste the abundant life that God wants for us.

And in just a few moments, we’ll come to the Table—the place where Christ himself gives everything for us.

Here we are fed, not with crumbs from a rich man’s table, but with the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.

Here we are reminded that our lives are not our own, that all we have is a gift from God.

Here we are strengthened to go out into the world and share what we’ve received.

So, come to the Table.

Come with open hands and open hearts.

Be fed.

Be filled with God’s grace.

And then go back through the gates of your own life with eyes wide open—ready to see, ready to give, ready to love. Because when we serve the least of these, we serve Christ himself.

Amen.

Reckless Love

A Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19C)
The Baptism of Serena Grace Walker
September 14, 2025

Text: Luke 15:1-10

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.

This morning, I want to start with a song. Now, I’ll admit, I’m usually a traditionalist when it comes to church music. Give me a hymn from the 1982 Hymnal and I’m perfectly happy!

But every once in a while, I discover a newer song that captures a truth of the Gospel in such a powerful way that I can’t help but be moved by it.

For me, one of those songs is Reckless Love by Cory Asbury.

Some of you have probably heard it before, especially if you’re a fan of contemporary Christian music.

The chorus describes God’s love as overwhelming and never-ending, a love that pursues us and never gives up, a love that tears down walls and breaks through barriers to bring us home.

It goes like this:

Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.
Oh, it chases me down, fights ‘til I’m found, leaves the ninety-nine.
I couldn’t earn it, I don’t deserve it, still You give Yourself away.
Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.

Whenever I hear that song, I can’t help but think of the parable of Jesus we heard in our Gospel lesson this morning from Luke—the story of the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep behind in order to go and find the one that is lost.

It’s one of the simplest parables Jesus tells, and yet it’s also one of the most profound. 

A shepherd notices that one of his sheep is missing. Ninety-nine are still safe, but one is lost. 

And instead of being content with what remains, the shepherd goes out into the wilderness to search for the lost sheep. 

He doesn’t shrug his shoulders and say, “Well, at least most of the flock is okay.” He doesn’t write off the missing one as if it doesn’t matter. No—he goes, and he searches.

And when he finds that one lost sheep, he doesn’t punish it or drive it back with a stick. He lifts it onto his shoulders and carries it back home, rejoicing.

That’s what God’s love is like. 

It’s reckless, in the best sense of the word. 

Not careless, but extravagant. Unrelenting. Willing to go to any length to find us and bring us back home again.

And that’s the kind of love we celebrate today as we gather to baptize Serena Walker into the household of God and welcome her as the newest member of the Body of Christ.

Baptism is the beginning of our walk with Jesus. It’s the sign and seal of God’s reckless, relentless love.

In baptism, God does for us what the shepherd does for the lost sheep: God finds us, names us, claims us as his own, and carries us home.

It’s important for us to remember that in baptism, we don’t make God love us any more than he already does. God already loves us more than we can possibly imagine. 

What we do in baptism is recognize that love, respond to it, and commit ourselves to walk in it.

Baptism is deeply personal—it marks the beginning of our life in Christ. But it’s also communal—it binds us into the Body of Christ, the family of God. 

That’s why we celebrate the sacrament of Baptism as a church family and not in a private ceremony.

Here at St. Mary’s, we make the joy of baptism visible through our tradition of creating a banner for every person who is baptized or confirmed.

Each banner is unique, just as each of us is uniquely made by God. We hang them all in the Parish Hall, where they serve as a reminder that we belong not only to God, but also to one another.

When you look around and see those banners together, you see more than just fabric and color—you see a community stitched together in love.

And today, Serena’s banner will be added to that collection, a lasting sign that her life and her story are now woven into the story of this church and this family of faith.

Serena first came to St. Mary’s a couple of years ago as a junior in high school. At first, she was a little shy and a little unsure about this place called the Episcopal Church. 

She didn’t quite know what she would find here, or whether or not she would fit in. 

But over time, she discovered that she had a place here. 

She joined our choir as a choral scholar, and her voice became a gift to our worship. 

She found in this community a place where she could grow, ask questions, and feel at home.

Earlier this week, we met to talk about baptism, and one of the things Serena told me was how much this church has meant to her over the past two years. 

She said that one of the things she appreciates most about our parish is that we don’t judge others. 

Here, she found a faith community where she could be herself and feel welcomed, exactly how God made her.

A few weeks ago, at the end of choir practice, she came up to me and said, “Father Eric, before I leave for college, I want to be baptized.” 

Well…as you might imagine I went home that night with the biggest smile on my face, almost moved to tears, thanking God for this wonderful blessing. 

Thanking God for bringing Serena to us, even if it was only for a short time. Thanking God for being present in her life and opening her heart to the movement of the Spirit.

Next month, she’ll head west to Los Angeles to begin her college education, and when she leaves, she’ll carry this new identity with her into the next chapter of her life—child of God, marked as Christ’s own forever.

Serena’s decision to be baptized before she leaves for college is her way of saying yes to God’s love. 

But it’s also a reminder for all of us. 

Baptism isn’t just about one person’s story—it’s about the whole Church. Every baptism is a chance for us to remember who we are, and to renew the promises we made at the font.

Because baptism isn’t just about what God has done—it’s also about what comes next. 

It equips us to walk into the future with faith. It anchors us in God’s love no matter where life takes us.

And this is why baptism matters—not just for Serena, but for all of us.

No matter where we find ourselves in life—no matter what hardships we face—God never walks away. 

God is always with us. 

Given the week we’ve just lived through as a nation, I really needed that reminder.

I needed to be reminded this week of God’s relentless love—a love that seeks us out when we’re lost and brings us back home again.

On Wednesday night, I sat down at the dinner table with my kids, and like many of you, I felt the weight of the news from the day.

Earlier that day, we learned of the tragic death of a well-known public figure. Regardless of his politics or opinions—or whether or not you agreed with him—he was a child of God, a husband and a father, leaving behind a grieving family.

We also learned that there had been another school shooting, this time at a high school in Colorado, leaving two students critically injured and the person responsible dead.

Two tragic reminders of how fragile life is and how deeply our world is broken.

As we talked about it, I told the kids that sometimes the world feels like a dark and lonely place.

There are days when it seems like hope is slipping away, especially when we see all the ways people hurt one another.

We live in a time when even small disagreements can quickly turn into anger and division.

And this isn’t just an “us” versus “them” problem.

It’s not a matter of politics, or religion, or any one group.

It’s a “we” problem. We, as a society, have forgotten how to see the image of God in one another.

Until we recognize that we’re all responsible for the divisions, the anger, the violence, and the hostility, we’ll keep passing the blame back and forth and nothing will ever change.

We’ve stopped listening to each other.

We’ve stopped assuming the best in one another.

And too often, we’ve forgotten that even those we disagree with—even those who frustrate us or threaten us—are still children of God.

But here’s the Good News:

Yes, the darkness of our world is real, but it will never have the final word.

Just like the shepherd in Jesus’ story, God comes searching.

God finds us. God carries us home.

The waters of baptism remind us that God’s love is stronger than hate, stronger than violence, stronger even than death.

When we step into those waters, we step into the light that no darkness can overcome.

That’s why our faith matters so much.

Because in baptism, we’re reminded that there’s another way.

Baptism calls us out of the cycle of hostility and blame and into the way of Jesus—a way marked by mercy, forgiveness, and love.

Baptism reminds us that we’re not defined by the brokenness of the world, but by the love of God.

Baptism tells us that in the midst of darkness, we belong to the light.

Baptism calls us to live not for ourselves alone, but for Christ, who died and rose again.

And so today is not just a celebration for Serena.

It’s a reminder to all of us who have already been baptized.

The way of Jesus—the way of love—calls us to live differently.

When the world says, “hate your enemies,” Jesus says, “love your enemies and pray for them.”

When the world says, “hold tightly to what you have,” Jesus says, “give freely.”

When the world says, “you are what you achieve,” Jesus says, “you are God’s beloved, and nothing can ever change that.”

Today we remember what a gift baptism is—God’s promise of new life and relentless, reckless love.

Serena, in just a few moments, you’ll join us in the waters of baptism, and you’ll rise again—renewed and reborn, a new creation in Christ.

You’ll be marked with the sign of the cross and sealed as Christ’s own forever.

And as we see you claim this promise of new life, all of us will be called back to our own baptism—to remember that we too are children of the light, sent into the world to shine with Christ’s love.

We rejoice with you on this day.

We give thanks for your courage, your faith, and the future God has in store for you.

And we entrust you to the Good Shepherd—the one who seeks, the one who saves, and the one who rejoices over you with love that will never let you go.

Amen.

Let Mutual Love Continue

A Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17C)
August 31, 2025

Texts: Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and Luke 14:1, 7-14

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.

I have a friend from seminary who’s now a priest in the Episcopal Church. One day, someone came up to him and asked him, “Why go to church?”

I’ll never forget his answer.

It wasn’t a long, theological explanation.

He just said, “Sometimes you need someone to show up at your door with a casserole.”

And he’s right.

Church isn’t just about Sunday worship or beautiful prayers.

It’s about people who show up when life is hard. It’s about having a family to lean on—especially in times like these.

Because these past couple of weeks have been tough.

I’ve felt it, and I know many of you have, too.

Our dear friends, Johny and Sandra Odom, lost their daughter, Jenny, this past week. She left behind a loving husband and three wonderful children, including our beloved Maci, who watches over our children in the nursery.

We had a beautiful memorial service for Jenny yesterday at her church in Red Level.

Our dear sister in Christ, Joanne Boswell—mother of Debbie Grimes—is with God now.

I was with Joanne and Debbie and their family on Tuesday afternoon, as we gathered around Joanne’s bedside in the hospital and prayed Last Rites together.

It was a beautiful and tender moment, and I know it’s what Joanne would have wanted.

And a little over a week ago, our former rector at St. Mary’s, Mother Cindy, died unexpectedly and entered into the nearer presence of God.

She touched the lives of so many of us here, and countless others in this community and beyond. She was a faithful priest, a dear friend, and she will be deeply missed.

I don’t name these losses to open fresh wounds.

I name them because they are real, because they are heavy on our hearts, and because this is what it means to be church—we hold these things before God together.

We don’t walk through them alone.

I’ll be honest.

There’ve been moments this past week when it felt overwhelming, like the grief was piling up faster than I could catch my breath.

Phone call after phone call. Email after email. Services to plan, volunteers to line up, prayers to offer.

It’s been a lot to take in at one time.

And yet—in the midst of all this sadness—I’ve also witnessed something holy.

I’ve seen people step up and volunteer to serve, to bring meals, to sit quietly with those who are hurting, to simply show up and pray.

I’ve seen people drive to and from Birmingham to celebrate the life of a friend and former priest and offer condolences to a grieving family.

Many of those people are here today, and I want to say, “Thank you.”

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for being present.

Thank you for doing all the little things I don’t even know about.

In these small but powerful ways, you’ve been embodying the words of Scripture we heard earlier this morning in our lesson from Hebrews:

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality.”

That phrase, “Let mutual love continue,” has stayed with me all week. 

It’s short. Simple. Easy to remember.

But it’s also powerful.

In fact, I want us to hold onto it as a kind of refrain this morning—as a touchstone for our life together in this moment of grief and hope.

So, if you don’t remember anything else I say, I want you to remember this: Let mutual love continue.

Let’s say it together: Let mutual love continue.

The passage we heard this morning from Hebrews comes at the very end of the letter.

We don’t know who exactly wrote Hebrews, but we do know it was written to an early group of Jewish Christians who were tired, discouraged, and struggling to keep their faith. 

They were facing pressure from the culture around them, and some were even tempted to turn away from their faith in Christ.

The whole letter—from beginning to end—is a reminder that Jesus is worth holding onto—that he is greater than the angels, greater than Moses, greater than the sacrifices and rituals of the old covenant.

And when you get to the last chapter of Hebrews, the author gets practical:

Here’s how you live, here’s how you keep the faith, here’s how you care for one another.

And it begins right here in our lesson this morning:

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

For me, the word that really stands out in this passage is “hospitality.”

Now, normally, when we think about hospitality, we think about someone who gives it and someone who receives it—a host and a guest.

But, in Scripture, it’s never one-sided.

It’s not just about the host giving and the guest receiving. Both are important, and both are blessed in the exchange.

And that’s exactly what Hebrews is pointing to.

Hospitality isn’t just about setting out a nice table or offering someone a comfortable chair or holding the door open for someone.

It’s about opening your life—your time, your resources, your heart—to another person and being blessed in the process.

It’s about making room for others, seeing them as a guest of God.

It’s about treating the stranger not with suspicion, but as if they might be an angel in disguise.

That’s a radical, risky kind of hospitality—the kind that Jesus calls us to.

And it’s the kind of hospitality I’ve seen in you—especially over this past week.

Every time you’ve delivered a meal, or written a card, or shown up to a funeral, you’ve been practicing hospitality.

You’ve been saying to those who grieve, “You are not alone. You are loved. And you don’t have to carry this burden by yourself.”

And in that love—in that hospitality—you’ve been living out the command: Let mutual love continue.

In our Gospel reading today from Luke, we heard the Parable of the Wedding Banquet, the one where Jesus says, “When you are invited, don’t sit down at the place of honor, but take the lowest place.”

At first, it might seem like a lesson in manners.

But, it’s more than that.

It’s really about humility.

It’s about remembering that the Kingdom of God doesn’t work like the kingdoms of this world.

The world tells us to climb higher, to seek places of honor, to claim what’s rightfully ours.

But Jesus flips the script.

He says the guest who humbles himself is the one who is honored.

The one who takes the lower place is the one who’s lifted up.

C.S. Lewis said it this way: “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.”

In other words, humility isn’t about denying your worth or pretending you don’t matter.

It’s about turning your gaze outward—making room for others, giving attention to their needs, and finding joy in lifting them up.

That sounds a lot like hospitality, does’t it?

It sounds a lot like what I’ve seen in this parish—people setting aside their own comfort to care for others, people showing up without needing recognition, people making room for one another in the midst of grief—simply because it’s the loving thing to do.

It’s humility and hospitality, woven together by one simple refrain: Let mutual love continue.

If you want another way to think about it, it’s also what we practice every time we gather at this table.

In the Eucharist, we practice mutual love.

Christ is both the host and the guest.

He welcomes us to feast at God’s Table and pours out upon us the gift of grace.

And at the same time, he makes his home within us. We welcome Jesus into our hearts and carry him with us wherever we go.

At this table, the proud are humbled and the humble are lifted up.

Here, the hungry are fed, and the grieving are comforted.

And from here, we’re sent back out into the world to extend the same love and welcome we’ve received.

So in our grief, in our service, in our worship, let us hold fast to these words. Let them be our touchstone, our anchor, our calling: Let mutual love continue.

When sorrow weighs heavy on our hearts and we start to feel overwhelmed or afraid, let mutual love continue.

When meals are shared and prayers are offered with those who grieve, let mutual love continue.

When we gather at the table of our Lord, let mutual love continue.

When we step back into the world, carrying both our grief and our hope, may those words go with us still: Let mutual love continue.

Because it’s in that love—in mutual, humble, hospitable love—that we find Christ present with us.

And that’s what will carry us through.

So, say it with me again: Let mutual love continue.

Amen.