christianity – The Rev. Eric Mancil

God’s Abiding Love

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 15, 2026

Text: John 9:1-41

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

There’s a question that human beings have been asking for as long as we’ve been around. It’s the question we ask ourselves whenever life takes a turn for the worse or when something painful happens to us or someone we care about.

The question is simple.

Why?

As it happens, that question actually came up in a different way last weekend at our parish retreat at Blue Lake.

One of the things we did Saturday afternoon during our program time was play a little game called “Stump the Priest.”

People could write questions anonymously on a piece of paper—any question they wanted to ask—and I had to answer them on the spot.

Some of the questions were fun and lighthearted.

One person asked, “What’s the best rock band?”

To which I confidently replied, “The Eagles.”

(Although Journey is a very close second.)

Some of the questions had to do with me and my call to the priesthood.

But then there were some deeper questions—questions about the nature of God.

And one person asked a question that really made me stop and think for a moment.

They wrote, “How can God be just and merciful?”

In other words, how can God be a God of justice and a God of mercy at the same time?

That’s one of those questions that’s really hard to answer.

It’s the kind of question you usually want to sit with for a few days—not something you have to answer in ten seconds in front of a room full of people.

I did my best and hopefully gave a halfway decent answer.

But since then, I’ve had a little more time to think about it.

And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that there may be an even deeper question underneath it.

Because when people ask a question like that, they’re often wrestling with something in their lives that hits close to home.

Maybe the deeper question is this:

If God is loving and all-powerful—if God can do anything—then why is there so much pain and suffering in the world?

That’s an age-old question.

People have been asking it for centuries.

And I suspect it’s a mystery we’ll continue to wonder about until Jesus comes again.

If God created all that is and if God loves us more than we can possibly imagine, then why does God allow us to suffer?

Why are some people born with burdens they never asked for?

Why do some people suffer from illness while others live perfectly healthy lives?

Why do earthquakes, storms, and fires destroy homes and communities?

Why?

It’s the same question the disciples ask Jesus in our Gospel lesson this morning from John.

At the beginning of our story, as Jesus and his disciples are walking along, they see a man who has been blind since birth.

And the disciples immediately ask Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

In other words: Why?

Why did this happen?

Someone must be responsible.

Something must have caused this.

Surely there must be a good reason.

That way of thinking was very common in the ancient world.

Many people believed that suffering—whether it was illness, disability, or tragedy—was the result of sin.

If something bad happened to you, it must mean that somewhere along the way someone had done something wrong.

The disciples are trying to understand what happened to this man and why he was born with this condition.

But Jesus says something unexpected.

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” he says.

In other words, this was not a punishment from God.

It’s important for us to hear those words, because even today we still ask the same question.

Whenever something painful or difficult happens in our lives, our first instinct is to ask why.

Why did this happen to me?

Why did God let this happen?

What did I do to deserve this?

As human beings, we want the world to make sense.

We want things to be fair and just.

We want to believe that good things happen to good people and bad things happen to those who deserve it.

Because if that were true, the world would feel safe and predictable.

If something bad happens, we think that if we can just figure out why—if we can explain it—it would somehow make the pain easier to bear.

I see it all the time in my work as a priest.

Not long ago, I was talking with a friend who was going through a really difficult season of life.

It seemed like nothing was going her way.

One struggle after another kept piling up, and eventually she reached a breaking point.

And she asked me the question that so many of us have asked.

“Why is this happening to me? I’ve done everything right. I’ve tried to live a good life. Why would God let this happen?”

She wanted the world to make sense.

She wanted to believe that if you try to live a good and faithful life, then life should treat you fairly in return.

But the truth is, life rarely works that way.

Sometimes there is no clear explanation.

Sometimes suffering shows up in ways that make no sense at all.

Good people get sick.

Faithful people experience loss.

Innocent people suffer.

Sometimes, there’s a clear explanation why—and sometimes there’s not.

And when those moments come, the question “why” can start to weigh heavy on our hearts.

And make us wonder whether or not God really cares about us at all.

I want to bring us back to Jesus and what happens to the man who was born blind.

Jesus doesn’t blame anyone for the man’s suffering.

He doesn’t try to explain why he was born blind.

Instead, Jesus responds in the best way he knows how.

With healing and compassion.

He spreads mud on the man’s eyes, and miraculously, he receives his sight.

In John’s Gospel, the author rarely uses the word “miracle” to describe the amazing things Jesus does.

Instead, he calls them signs.

And that’s important to remember because a sign always points to something beyond itself.

This story is not just about one miraculous act of healing.

It’s a sign pointing us to the truth of who God is.

It points us to a God who heals and restores—a God who is in the process of making all things new.

But, the story doesn’t end there.

After the healing, the man is brought before the Pharisees.

They question him.

They argue with him.

They even interrogate his parents, trying to discover the truth of what happened.

And when the man refuses to back down—when he keeps telling them that the one who healed him must be from God—the Pharisees refuse to listen.

They cast him out.

This man who has spent his whole life on the margins—blind since birth and probably a beggar—is cast out once again.

And in the time of Jesus, that would have been devastating.

To be driven out meant being excluded from the synagogue, which was the center of spiritual life in the community.

It meant being cut off from the life of the community itself—socially isolated, and perhaps even separated from family and friends.

But then John tells us what happens next—and it’s a detail we often miss.

“When Jesus heard that they had driven him out, he found him.”

Jesus goes looking for the man who was cast out.

Think about that for a moment.

Jesus could’ve easily moved on.

The miracle had already happened.

The man had received his sight.

Jesus had already done more than enough.

But when Jesus hears that the man has been driven out from the community, he goes back.

He seeks him out.

Jesus is not only concerned with healing the man’s eyes.

Jesus cares about his whole life.

His dignity.

His belonging.

His place in the world.

So Jesus seeks him out and finds him.

And in that moment the man receives something even greater than the gift of sight.

He receives the gift of knowing God’s unconditional, abiding love.

He is seen as God’s beloved.

And maybe that’s the greatest miracle of all.

Because what this story shows us is the heart of God.

Our God is not a God who causes pain and suffering.

God is not waiting around up in heaven waiting for us to mess up so he can punish us.

Our God is a God of healing and restoration, a God who seeks us out and promises to walk with us through all the changes and chances of this life.

When the world casts people aside, God is with them.

When life pushes us to the margins, God is with us.

And when we find ourselves asking “why”—when we walk through seasons of life we didn’t ask for and can’t explain—this story reminds us of God’s unconditional, abiding love.

God is always with us.

Even when we don’t understand why some things happen—

Even in the midst of despair and suffering—

Jesus is still the one who comes looking for us and promises to never let us go. Amen.

Born From Above

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 1, 2026

Text: John 3:1-17

A lot of us grew up with the idea that being a Christian means basically two things: Number one: you show up to church on Sundays. And number two: you believe certain things about who Jesus is.

You try your best to be a good person. You pray when you’re supposed to. You’re kind and respectful. You believe Jesus is the Son of God—that he died and rose again—and that God loves you.

It’s the faith many of us learned in Sunday School.

And if you do those things—if you check all those boxes—then you’re good.

Now, I want to be really clear: coming to church matters. What we believe matters. Prayer matters. What we say in the Nicene Creed matters. The Church has always cared about seeking the truth of who God is—and that’s a good thing.

But if we’re being honest, that version of Christianity doesn’t go very deep.

Because you can come to church every Sunday and still live the rest of the week no differently than anyone else.

You can sit in the same pew year after year and still be shaped more by your worries, your habits, your grudges, and the noise around you than by Jesus.

You can believe all the right things about Jesus and still not actually follow Jesus.

We see a good example of that today in our Gospel lesson, because Nicodemus is, in many ways, the picture-perfect image of a “good religious person.”

He’s serious about God.

He’s well-educated, well-known, and respected.

He knows the Scriptures. He’s a teacher of Israel. He believes the right things about God.

And yet he comes to Jesus at night because he knows something is missing.

Bishop Russell put it this way in his closing sermon yesterday at the diocesan convention: “There is more.”

And Nicodemus knows that.

There is more to life than what he has. There is more to God than what he can explain.

So he goes to Jesus, and he says: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

That almost sounds like a confession of faith, doesn’t it?

Like Peter telling Jesus that he is the Messiah, the Son of God.

It sounds like the thing we wish more people would say about Jesus.

But Jesus doesn’t respond by saying, “Great job, Nicodemus—you’ve said all the right things.”

He says, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

That tells us something important.

Jesus isn’t simply interested in what Nicodemus believes.

He’s most interested in what Nicodemus is becoming.

And I think that’s what today’s Gospel has to teach us.

Being a Christian isn’t just about showing up on Sundays and believing the right things. It’s about being changed by Jesus.

Nicodemus says all the right things:

“Rabbi, we know you’re from God.”

“We know you’re a legitimate teacher.”

But Jesus says, “Knowing isn’t enough. Believing the right things isn’t enough. You must be born from above.”

In other words: you can’t step into God’s kingdom and stay the same.

But Nicodemus wants to keep things under control. He wants faith to stay safe and manageable. So he asks, “How can anyone be born after having grown old?”

And honestly, it’s a fair question. We ask it too, just with different words: “This is who I’ve always been. Can I really change?”

Jesus answers, “You must be born of water and the Spirit.”

We recognize that language, don’t we?

That’s baptism language.

That’s Jesus’ way of saying that faith isn’t just something you believe—it’s something you live.

This past week I’ve been reading a new book by John Mark Comer called Practicing the Way.

And in one of the first chapters of the book he uses a word that I think is helpful when he talks about followers of Jesus.

Instead of the word “disciple,” he uses the word “apprentice.”

Most of us know an apprentice isn’t just someone who just admires their teacher from a distance.

An apprentice arranges their entire life around the teacher, practicing their way until it becomes their own.

The author of the book names something we all know to be true: it’s entirely possible to call yourself a “Christian” without being a disciple—an apprentice of Jesus.

It’s possible to identify as Christian—even to attend church regularly—without actually organizing your daily life around the One you claim to follow.

In other words, we can be sincere in our faith and still keep it separate from the way we live.

We can have a faith that stays mostly in our head—without letting it reach our hearts.

We can come to church and still be unloving to the people around us.

We can say the Creed and still cling to resentment.

We can sing about peace and still live in anger.

We can talk about loving our neighbors and still treat people like enemies.

And Jesus is telling Nicodemus—and he’s telling us—this is not what God intends.

What God wants is not just people who believe the right things or show up when they’re supposed to.

God wants people who are being remade and reborn—people learning to live the life of the kingdom.

That brings us to John 3:16—probably the most well-known verse in the New Testament:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

It’s easy to hear that verse and assume it means, “If you believe the right things about Jesus, then you’re covered.”

But in John’s Gospel, “belief” isn’t just something you think.

It’s trust.

It’s stepping into the light.

It’s letting your life be changed.

And that’s why the next verse matters so much—and why I think it should always be paired with John 3:16:

“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Jesus doesn’t come to condemn us.

He comes to bring us new life.

Jesus doesn’t come only to save us from something.

He comes to save us for something.

We are not only saved from sin and death.

We are saved for a life shaped by Jesus—a life of discipleship, a life lived in the way of love.

So what does that look like for us?

It means we stop thinking of Christianity as just “show up and believe the right things,” and we start asking a new question:

If Jesus is my teacher, how am I patterning my life after his?

Because being an apprentice means becoming like the teacher.

It means thinking about how you begin your day. If the first voice you listen to each morning is your phone or your TV—news, emails, notifications—don’t be surprised if you start the day anxious and afraid.

Apprentices of Jesus begin the day with Jesus, even if it’s a simple prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Help me follow you today.”

It means thinking about the way you speak when you’re stressed. When you’re tired, irritated, stretched thin—that’s when you find out what’s really forming you.

Apprentices of Jesus practice pausing before they speak. They ask: How would Jesus respond? What would Jesus say?

Becoming like Jesus means thinking about what you do with grudges and resentment. We’re really good at carrying them.

Apprentices of Jesus practice forgiveness, because Jesus forgave. Even if you’re not ready, you can pray: “Lord, I’m not ready—but make me willing.”

Becoming like Jesus means thinking about how you treat people you disagree with. I think this one is especially important right now.

Apprentices of Jesus don’t let anger rule their lives. They practice treating even those they disagree with as people made in God’s image—with dignity and respect.

Becoming like Jesus means thinking about how you use your time and your money.

Apprentices of Jesus practice generosity and simplicity. They practice rest. They practice saying “no” to things that leave no room for prayer and worship and family.

And little by little—over time—those practices become a new way of life.

That’s what Jesus means by being born from above.

Not instant perfection.

But a new direction. A new center. A life being reborn.

So I want to encourage you today, especially as we continue our journey through Lent:

If you’ve treated Christianity as just “show up and believe the right things,” Jesus is inviting you to go deeper.

Not out of guilt—but out of love.

Start small.

Choose one practice this week that helps you take a step in the way of Jesus.

And don’t do it to try to earn God’s love.

God already knows you. God already loves you. God already sees you.

Do it because God isn’t just saving you from something—God is saving you for something.

Nicodemus comes at night, but Jesus keeps speaking about light and life and Spirit and the kingdom of God.

He invites Nicodemus to step into the light and be changed.

And the same is true for us.

Jesus didn’t come to condemn the world.

He came to save it—to save us not only from sin and death, but from shallow faith… to save us for a life of discipleship, a life where the love of God is embodied in the way we live our lives.

So may this season of Lent be for you more than a time of just showing up.

May it be a season of new birth.

And may the Spirit teach us how to be with Jesus, how to become like Jesus, and do what Jesus did—until his way of love becomes the pattern of our lives.

Amen.

The Mountain Is Not the Mission

A Sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
February 15, 2026

Text: Matthew 17:1-9

Every year, on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, the Church brings us to the mountain. We’ve been walking in this season of light for weeks now. Watching for it. Listening for it. Noticing the quiet—and not so quiet—ways God has been revealing himself to us through Jesus.

The light of a star guiding the wise men to Bethlehem to pay homage to the newborn King.

The light breaking open the heavens at Jesus’ baptism.

The light of revelation when the first disciples realize that Jesus is no ordinary teacher and answer his call to follow.

The light of God’s Kingdom revealed through the Beatitudes.

The light Jesus names when he calls his followers salt and light for the world.

The season of Epiphany is all about revelation—about light breaking through, moment by moment—and God’s glory being made known through Jesus.

And now, as we come to the end of Epiphany and prepare to turn toward the season of Lent, we’re given one final, brilliant glimpse of who Jesus really is in our Gospel lesson lesson this morning from Matthew.

Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain.

And right before their eyes, he is transfigured.

His face shines like the sun.

His clothes become dazzling white.

Moses and Elijah appear.

And a voice from heaven speaks, saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved…listen to him.”

It’s not a subtle or quiet moment.

It’s the glory of God breaking through.

Whenever we hear the story of the Transfiguration, it’s easy to assume this moment was all for Jesus—especially since it comes right before he begins his journey toward Jerusalem.

But, I don’t think this moment was for Jesus.

Jesus already knows who he is.

He’s already heard the voice from heaven declare that he’s God’s beloved Son.

He already knows the road ahead will lead to suffering and the cross.

No, this light from heaven—this moment of Transfiguration—is for the disciples.

They’re the ones who need to see it.

They’re the ones who will follow Jesus into Jerusalem and need reassurance when everything around them seems to be falling apart and all hope seems lost.

So God gives them a glimpse of glory.

Not a detailed explanation of who Jesus is.

Not all the answers to their questions.

Just a glimpse.

Enough to give them courage for the days ahead.

Enough to help them trust that even in the darkest times, God will be with them.

The light does’t remove every doubt.

But it gives them what they’ll need later. They see the light now so they can follow Jesus when the road becomes dark.

And I think that’s often how God works in our lives.

We’re given moments of light—glimpses of heaven—not so we can stay on top of the mountain, but so we can remember who we are and who we’re called to follow when life gets hard.

Those kinds of mountain-top moments still happen from time to time, and when they do, it’s important for us to hold them in our hearts.

They don’t always come with shining faces or voices from heaven. But every once in a while, we experience something that feels unmistakably holy—a moment when God’s love feels close enough to touch.

I had a moment like that—actually lots of moments—last weekend when I had the opportunity to go down to Pensacola and serve on staff for a Happening weekend.

If you’ve never heard of Happening, it’s basically a three-day retreat for high school students. A few days away from the noise and the pressure and constant performance of life.

There’s time for worship and prayer. There are small groups.

There’s laughter and late-night conversations, and there’s a lot of simple acts of kindness.

And there are lots of surprises along the way. I can’t go into detail about those because that would ruin the experience for any high school students here today who want to go to Happening.

But, honestly, I can’t recommend it enough.

It’s not a flashy weekend. There are no praise bands or fancy productions. And no one is pressured to do anything they don’t want to do.

It’s a sacred time set apart when young people can be reminded—sometimes for the first time in a long time—that God is real, that they are loved, and that they belong.

This was my first experience of Happening and serving as part of what they call the “God Squad”—a group of clergy who are mostly there in the background to help when needed and provide spiritual support for the weekend.

We weren’t there to run the program or be the center of attention. We were simply there to pray, and to listen, and to be available.

And from the background, I got to witness something pretty incredible.

Teenagers who showed up on Friday night carrying real burdens. Real questions. Real stories.

Some of these young people have lived more life than many of us here today. And they were brave enough to speak honestly about it.

I watched other teenagers—members of the staff—stand up and share their own stories of faith and struggle.

They gave their time freely to be there.

They had prepared for weeks in advance.

And they could have been doing a hundred other things with their weekend.

But they chose to be there.

They chose to show up for their peers.

And by the end of those three days, something changed.

You could see it in their faces.

You could hear it in their voices.

During the closing Eucharist, the Happeners were invited to stand up and share one or two ways they had seen God during the weekend.

They spoke about being welcomed.

They spoke about kindness.

They spoke about God’s love.

To me, it felt like a mountain-top moment.

Not because anything extraordinary happened—but because the light of Christ was clearly present.

A glimpse of God’s glory.

A reminder that God is still at work in our lives.

And like the disciples in our Gospel lesson this morning, those young people were changed. They weren’t the same as they were on Friday night.

But here’s the hard truth about mountain-top moments:

We don’t get to stay there.

On the last day of Happening, one of the youth staff came up to me and asked, “Why can’t we just stay here?”

And I said, “That’s the thing about mountain-top moments. We have to come down. Because that’s where God calls us to go.”

Peter wanted to stay on the mountain, too.

“Lord, it is good for us to be here,” he says. He wants to build tents. He wants to hold onto the moment for as long as he possibly can.

And honestly—who can blame him when God feels that close?

I think we’d all be just like Peter.

But Jesus leads them back down the mountain.

Because the mountain is not the mission.

The light is given so it can be carried into the world.

Grace is given so it can be shared.

Love is given so it can be lived out through our words and actions.

That’s what the mountain is meant to do. It changes us—and then sends us out.

Our weekend away at Happening came to an end. The students went home. Back to school. Back to ordinary life.

But they didn’t go back the same as they were.

And neither did I.

Because when you witness the light of Christ—when you hear young people say, “I know I’m loved”—it changes you.

As the season of Epiphany comes to a close, we’re reminded that we, too, have seen the light of Christ and that we’ve been changed.

We’ve seen it revealed in the life and teachings of Jesus.

We’ve seen it revealed in worship—in the breaking of the Bread and in the prayers.

We’ve seen it in one another—in the ways we live out our faith and are called to serve others.

And now the Church will lead us down the mountain into season of Lent.

The road will grow a little quieter. The questions will deepen. The shadows will lengthen as we turn toward Jerusalem.

We go into that season having seen the light.

We go remembering who Jesus is.

We go trusting that even when the road grows dark, the glory we’ve seen is still true.

The mountain is not the mission.

But the light of Christ will always be with us.

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

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.

Faith Without Fear

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

Text: Luke 20:27-38

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

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.

The Measure of a Life

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

Text: Luke 16:19-31

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

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

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.

Love Comes First

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16C)
August 24, 2025

Text: Luke 13:10-17

When I was in the second grade at Pinedale Elementary School in Enterprise, my teacher, Ms. Sellers, had a system for keeping us in line.

Maybe some of you remember something like this from your own school days.

On the wall, she had a big chart with every student’s name written on it. Above each name, there was a pocket with a set of colored cards.

Every morning you started out on green.

If you broke a rule—talked out of turn, forgot your homework, maybe pushed someone in line—you had to get up, walk over to the wall in shame, and change your card.

Green meant you were good.

Yellow meant a warning.

And if you ended up on red, that meant you were in serious trouble.

Now, thankfully, I was never one of those students who had to change my card. (At least, that’s how I remember it!)

But even as a seven-year-old in Ms. Sellers’ class, I learned that rules were serious business and that breaking the rules came with consequences.

Rules are rules. That’s what my teacher taught us.

And of course, rules do matter, right?

We teach our children rules so they can learn right from wrong and stay safe.

We have rules of the road so we can drive without getting hurt or hurting someone else.

We have rules in our households and schools to give structure and order.

But, I think most of us have lived long enough to know that sometimes, rules can get in the way of what really matters.

Sometimes rules—or the way we interpret them—can keep us from doing the good that God is calling us to do.

And that’s exactly what’s happening in our Gospel reading for today.

Luke tells us that Jesus was teaching in a synagogue on the Sabbath day.

Now, the Sabbath was holy to the Jewish people, a sacred day meant to be observed and protected.

It was one of the Ten Commandments: “Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy.”

It was meant to be a gift for God’s people—a day of rest, renewal, and worship.

But over time, that gift became buried under layers of man-made rules.

What started as a blessing could feel more like a burden.

By Jesus’ time, rabbis had created long lists of what counted as “work” and what didn’t—a kind of do’s-and-don’ts guide for the Sabbath.

There were rules about how far you could walk, what you could carry, even whether healing someone was considered “work.”

Even helping someone could be seen as breaking the rules.

Instead of joy, the Sabbath could bring anxiety.

People worried more about breaking a rule than honoring God. And religious leaders often used these rules to control people and protect their own authority.

And then, we have Jesus, who sees this woman in a synagogue who’s been bent over for eighteen years.

She couldn’t stand up straight.

She couldn’t look people in the eye or see the faces of those she loved.

She carried not just a physical burden, but the emotional and spiritual weight of being overlooked, diminished, and forgotten.

Jesus calls her over.

He lays his hands on her, and immediately, she is healed.

She stands up straight.

For the first time in eighteen years, she can look people in the face.

She can see the sky.

She can see the light in the eyes of her neighbors.

She can praise God.

But instead of rejoicing, the leader of the synagogue gets angry.

He says, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the Sabbath day.”

In other words: Rules are rules.

The healing was good.

But it broke the rules, and that’s one step too far.

Jesus responds with righteous anger.

“You hypocrites! Doesn’t each one of you untie your ox or your donkey on the Sabbath, and lead it to water? Then ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the Sabbath day?”

Love comes first, Jesus says. The commandment to love God and love your neighbor outweighs every other rule.

That is the heart of this story: love—not rules, not appearances, not customs—is what should guide us.

When we love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and love our neighbors as ourselves, then the rest of the law begins to make sense.

We begin to see what God really desires for us: life, healing, compassion, and restoration—not rigid rule-keeping.

Rules still matter, of course. But love comes first.

If following a rule prevents us from loving God or our neighbor, then we’ve lost sight of what God intends.

The Sabbath was meant to give rest, not to be a burden.

What greater rest could there be for the bent-over woman than to be set free from her suffering?

The law was meant to guide people closer to God, not separate us.

What greater closeness could there be than standing upright for the first time in eighteen years and giving glory to God?

By healing on the Sabbath, Jesus challenged the religious leaders. He put his reputation on the line. He invited controversy. He stepped into conflict.

But he did it because love demanded it.

And that’s what discipleship looks like.

To follow Jesus is to let love be our guide, even when it’s risky—even when it challenges what others might consider “normal.”

That’s the kind of calling we have here in this church: to let love be our guide.

To risk doing things that maybe other people don’t understand.

To open our doors and our hearts wide enough that everyone knows they have a place here.

That’s why we have ministries like our Rice and Beans Ministry—handing out free bags of groceries every month on the third Saturday, along with a hot breakfast. Because people are hungry, and Jesus calls us to feed them. We feed people’s stomachs, but we also feed their souls because when they come through our doors, they know they’ll be welcomed here, no questions asked.

We host Laundry Love every month on the third Thursday—covering the cost of washing and drying people’s clothes. Because love means honoring the dignity of every person and looking after the small, important things—like having clean laundry.

We offer Community Dinners every year on Thanksgiving and Christmas—providing holiday meals for those who might be alone or unable to cook for themselves. And not only do we serve them here, but we deliver meals to those who are homebound. Because love finds a way to show up at someone’s door.

We provide space for AA groups to meet here every week. Because healing comes in many forms, and love makes room for people to gather in honesty and hope.

And every December we hold a Coat and Blanket Drive, collecting and distributing warm clothes for those in need. Because love calls us to care for the needs of others.

Other churches might not do all these things.

They might say, “That’s not really the job of a church.” Or, “That’s not how we do things here.”

But friends, we should never apologize for who we are or what God has called us to do. The ministries we have to offer—the way we show up in our community and care for those around us—reflect the heart of the Gospel.

And it’s not just in our outreach ministries.

It’s also in the way we welcome people here, every Sunday. We mean what we say when we say, “All are welcome.”

In this church, we believe everyone has a place at the Table.

It doesn’t matter where you come from.

It doesn’t matter how much money you make.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a life-long Episcopalian or if this is your first Sunday ever setting foot in a church.

Here, you are welcome.

Here, you are loved exactly how God made you.

Here, you can find peace in knowing that you are God’s beloved and that nothing can ever separate you from that love.

Friends, Jesus calls us to live by love.

Sometimes that means breaking tradition.

Sometimes it means taking risks.

Sometimes it means stepping outside what feels comfortable.

But when love is our guide, we discover freedom—not just for others, but for ourselves.

Think about it for a moment.

The bent-over woman who was healed by Jesus wasn’t the only one set free that day.

The whole community saw God’s power to heal.

They saw that the Sabbath wasn’t about restrictions—but about life.

They saw that God’s love was bigger than their rules.

And when we live that way—when we let love be our rule—we too are set free.

Amen.