Tag Archives: christianity

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.

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.

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.

A Sermon for the Celebration of a New Ministry
Holy Nativity Episcopal Church
Panama City, Florida
Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Texts: Psalm 100 and John 15:9-11

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.

Good evening! My name is Eric Mancil, and I serve as rector of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in Andalusia, Alabama. I bring you greetings tonight from the people of St. Mary’s and from the northern half of our diocese.

It is a joy and a blessing to be with you on this special occasion.

And let me begin by saying thank you.

Thank you, Forbes, for inviting me to preach tonight, and thank you all for allowing me to be part of this celebration.

It’s always a joy to gather for moments like this—moments that remind us that God is still moving in the life of our Church. The Spirit is still calling, still sending, still shaping us into something new.

When Forbes called me a few weeks ago to invite me to preach tonight, I was truly honored.

And one of the first questions I asked him was, “Which lessons are you planning to use for the service?”

He said he’d need a couple of days to decide, but he already knew one for sure, and that was Psalm 100.

Now, Psalm 100 isn’t one we usually hear at the Celebration of a New Ministry, so I asked him why he chose it.

He told me it’s been deeply meaningful in his own prayer life—and it’s the same scripture he shared with you in his letter when he accepted your call as rector.

And I have to say, I think it’s a beautiful choice.

Psalm 100 is a song of joy and thanksgiving, a reminder that God is faithful and good.

It opens with those familiar words:

“Be joyful in the LORD, all you lands; serve the LORD with gladness and come before his presence with a song.”

What better way to begin a new season of ministry together than with that invitation—to be people of joy, gratitude, and praise?

And that same spirit of joy and gratitude flows directly into our Gospel reading for tonight.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus is gathered with his disciples in the Upper Room on the night before his crucifixion.

He has just washed their feet, shared bread and wine, and is preparing them for what is about to happen.

These are his final words to the friends he has walked with for the past three years—his last chance to teach them what matters most.

And what does he say?

“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

Notice the connection between these two passages.

Psalm 100 invites us to be joyful—to enter God’s presence with gladness and thanksgiving.

In the Gospel, Jesus invites us to abide in his love so that our joy may be complete.

Together, these lessons remind us that true joy doesn’t depend on what’s happening around us.

It doesn’t depend on our circumstances.

True joy comes from knowing that God is with us and that we are held in his love.

It comes from knowing that we are following the way of Jesus, which is the way of love.

The joy we hear in tonight’s readings is deeply connected to the work of ministry—which makes it especially fitting for this night, as we celebrate the beginning of something new here at Holy Nativity.

And I don’t just mean Forbes’s ministry. I mean your ministry—the ministry you’re called to share with him, and with one another

Ministry isn’t something we do alone.

It’s a journey we walk together.

I was reminded of this early on in my vocation as a priest.

Several years ago, when I was still a “baby priest” and shortly before I accepted my first call in the Diocese of Alabama, I was invited to visit with Bishop Kee Sloan in his office in downtown Birmingham.

You see, in our church, the bishop has the final say in whether a candidate for rector may serve at a parish.

So this visit was part conversation, part discernment, and—I suspect—to make sure I wasn’t going to do anything too crazy!

Early in our conversation, Bishop Kee said something that has stayed with me ever since and has guided me in my life as a priest and pastor.

In his quiet, gentle way—the way he speaks that makes every word feel important—Bishop Kee said, “We are a relational diocese.”

What he meant was that this diocese values relationships and practices genuine hospitality.

Whoever you are, wherever you come from, you are welcomed—and you are called to walk alongside others in ministry, not alone.

Hearing that then, I thought to myself, “Yes, this is exactly why I want to be here!”

This is the diocese that welcomed me into the Episcopal Church, that supported campus ministry and young adult ministry—ministries that shaped my life profoundly and led me to discern a call to the priesthood.

And in that moment with Bishop Kee, I realized something important: ministry is more than just friendship.

It is companionship—it’s walking together, growing together, supporting each other, and sharing the work and the joys of God’s call.

I was reminded of this again last summer, when Forbes and I traveled to Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico, for a preaching conference—a place that feels like it’s literally in the middle of nowhere.

During periods of free time, we had the opportunity to explore the area, and one afternoon we decided to visit the Monastery of Christ in the Desert—a Benedictine monastery just a few miles from the ranch.

The funny thing is, even though the monastery was only a few miles away, it took us almost an hour to get there because we had to drive so slowly.

The road twisted and turned, and parts of it were only wide enough for one vehicle to pass through.

The monastery itself was stunning, set against the red desert mountains and wide, open sky.

But, what I remember most about that trip wasn’t the chapel or the grounds or the gift shop (you know every monastery has to have a gift shop).

It was our journey there—driving through the desert, stopping to take in the beautiful landscapes, sharing stories about our hopes and struggles in ministry.

Those hours in the car gave me the chance to really get to know Forbes—his heart for ministry, his insights, and his care for people—and to share my own experience with him.

Visiting the monastery was certainly worth the time, but what made the trip memorable was the companionship—the laughter, the conversation, the shared stories along the way.

That’s what ministry is all about.

It’s never a solo act.

It’s a shared journey, and the road becomes joyful when we walk it together.

Which brings me to something important I want to share with you tonight.

You know…as a guest preacher, I have a little bit of a special privilege. I get to come in, speak what’s on my heart, and then drive back home.

That also means I get to say some things that your priest might not feel comfortable sharing, especially when he’s only been here a few months.

So here’s the truth I want you to hear—and I want you to let it sink in for a moment: Forbes cannot do this ministry alone.

He’s a talented priest, and he’ll serve you well.

But, he’s going to need your help—your prayers, your gifts, your time, your presence, and—most importantly—your love.

It can be tempting, especially when a new priest arrives, to think: “Father is finally here! Hallelujah! Now he can take over everything. He’ll fix all the problems, lead all the programs, carry the load we’ve been carrying.”

But friends, trust me when I say this. That is a heavy burden for any priest to carry. I say that from personal experience.

No one can carry the full weight of a parish alone without growing weary, discouraged, or even burned out.

So, I’ll say it again:

Ministry is meant to be shared.

When you walk alongside Forbes, sharing both the work and the joys of this parish, you’re not just supporting him—you’re stepping into the joy Jesus promises, the deep joy that comes from living, serving, and growing together in God’s love.

If you remember nothing else, remember this: the life of a parish does not rest on the shoulders of one person.

It flourishes when the whole community comes together, each offering what God has given, each supporting one another in love and faithfulness.

You’ve called a wonderful priest in Forbes, and my prayer for you is that this relationship will last for many years to come.

So, in the words of Bishop Kee, who once preached at my Celebration of a New Ministry, “Don’t mess it up.”

Forbes is faithful and devoted, but he will need your partnership—not just your applause, your gratitude, or your presence in worship—but your active involvement in the life of this parish.

Ministry is not just his work—it’s yours too.

And as you walk this road together—Forbes with you, and you with him—may you experience the joy that both the psalmist and Jesus speak of: the joy of belonging to God, the joy of abiding in Christ’s love, and the joy of walking together as companions along the way.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Feast of St. Mary the Virgin
Sunday, August 17, 2025

Text: Luke 1:46-66

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.

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on the sacred spaces where we gather to worship. Every church—every community of faith—has its own history and personality, shaped not just by the building itself but by the countless stories woven through its walls.

Take our church, for example.

St. Mary’s began on Second Avenue in Andalusia, just around the corner.

The original building was built in the late 1940s, and when the parish moved to this location and a new church was needed to accommodate more people, part of that old building was incorporated into the new design.

So, when you walk into the Library—just to my left—you’re actually standing in the very space where St. Mary’s parishioners worshiped long before this building ever existed.

Our churches tell stories—not just of where we’ve been, but of where God is leading us to go.

Some of these stories are easy to see in things like stained glass windows, altar tables, or pieces of art.

Others live quietly in small details you might miss unless you look closely.

One of my favorite examples of these small, hidden treasures can be found in many Episcopal churches.

If you step behind the pulpit, you might just find a small, brass plaque with a short but powerful verse from John’s Gospel:

“Sir, we wish to see Jesus” (John 12:21).

Those words come from a moment when some Greeks—outsiders who were curious about Jesus—approached one of the disciples, and said, “We want to meet Jesus. We want to know who he really is.”

It’s such a simple request.

But it carries tremendous weight—even for us today.

These words capture the heart of what every person longs for at some point, especially those of us who come to church seeking a closer relationship with God.

We want to experience something real. Something true. Something holy.

To see Jesus is more than just looking back at a figure from history or hearing a story from two thousand years ago.

It’s to encounter the living presence of God, who loves us, knows us, and calls us into new life.

That short phrase—“Sir, we wish to see Jesus”—reminds us why we gather here to worship, week after week.

It’s not about tradition or routine or checking a box.

It’s about creating a space where people can come as they are, with questions, hopes, and even fears, and find Jesus waiting for them.

Well, I decided months ago that our pulpit needed one of those reminders—a small plaque that reads, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”

So, I went online and ordered one. And about a week later, I was standing right here with my screwdriver, nervously attaching it to the pulpit.

Now, I’ll be honest…

I didn’t exactly run it by the Altar Guild first. Which is risky, I know—because if the Holy Spirit moves something, the Altar Guild will move it right back.

But, since it was small and mostly out of sight, I figured I might get away with it… at least until now.

All joking aside, I’m so glad I did it.

Because, now, every time I stand behind this pulpit, I’m reminded of what my job really is.

It’s not to impress you.

It’s not to entertain you.

It’s not even to share my own opinions.

It’s to help you see Jesus.

To open up the Scriptures in a way that makes your heart say, “Yes, Lord, I see you.”

To tell the stories of God’s love so clearly that you leave this place, not just thinking about Jesus, but wanting to follow him more closely.

And here’s the thing—it’s not just the preacher’s job.

This calling belongs to all of us—every person in this room, whether you’ve been here for decades and worshiped in the old church on Second Avenue or just walked through our doors for the first time last week.

Each of us has the opportunity—and responsibility—to help someone else see Jesus.

Through our words.

Through acts of kindness and generosity.

Through listening when the world urges us to argue.

Through showing up when it would be easier to walk away.

Sometimes with words, sometimes with actions—but always as a witness to the love of God in Christ Jesus.

And if you want to know what that looks like, just take a look at the past week in our parish.

Since last Sunday…

A group of women met with our Daughters of the King chapter, committing to a time of prayer and discernment as they decide whether or not they’re being called to that ministry.

A group of men showed up early Monday to clean out a broken freezer in the kitchen, and while they were at it, they pressure washed all the floor mats.

I had some wonderful conversations with members about upcoming events like our Holiday Jubilee in December and our 5K in February.

We had a healing service on Wednesday at noon, where people came to ask for healing and wholeness, for themselves and for others.

Our Altar Guild quietly cared for the sanctuary, making sure everything was ready for today’s celebration.

The choir gathered on Wednesday night for rehearsal, lifting their voices to God and preparing beautiful music for weeks to come.

Members of the EYC gathered for prayer and Bible study at the local coffee shop.

On Friday, volunteers packed bags of food for those in need. And Saturday morning, many came back to serve a hot breakfast to our community.

That’s just one week.

And those are only the things I know about—there are countless acts of love and service happening quietly every day, without any recognition.

Just recently, I told my wife, “There’s a renewed spirit and energy in this place.” And I really believe it.

Our parish is alive and well, and we’re growing—not just in numbers but in our faith.

That’s not just something to feel good about; it’s something that matters deeply.

Why?

Because God needs it.

God needs this parish to be a light in the midst of the darkness.

The world around us is full of fear, hatred, and division.

It can feel overwhelming at times—the way people only seem to care about themselves or the way people cling to fear or forget how to listen and love.

But here, in this parish, we choose a better way.

We come together as a community of faith—not because we all look the same or agree on everything, but because we share something deeper.

We share a Table, where Christ not only meets us, but also draws us closer to one another.

We share a purpose—to live out God’s love in the world.

We share a hope, grounded not in our own strength but in the promise of resurrection.

Mary’s song, the Magnificat, which we heard in the Gospel today, captures this hope perfectly.

It’s a song of joy and surprise—because God does the unexpected.

He lifts up the lowly.

He fills the hungry with good things.

He scatters the proud.

God’s mercy overturns the powers of this world and sets a new kingdom in motion—one built on justice, peace, and love.

That song—the Magnificat—is not just Mary’s song.

It’s our song as well, and we’re singing it today.

We are a wonderfully diverse group of people, with many stories and backgrounds. And yet, despite our differences, we gather around the altar as one Body in Christ.

That unity is no small thing.

It’s a sign of the Holy Spirit at work.

God’s love calls us out of fear into courage. Out of division into community. Out of isolation into mission.

Together, we have the ability—each one of us—to show the world a better way.

And that’s the way of love.

So, as we celebrate today and remember Blessed Mary, who said to the angel, “Let it be to me according to your word,” may we also say “yes” to the call God places on each of our lives.

May we be a community of faith that welcomes all, loves without condition, and serves without expecting anything in return.

May we live out the hope of the Magnificat, opening our hearts to God’s transforming work in the world around us.

And, most of all, may we help others see Jesus—not just from this pulpit, but in our words, in our actions, and in the way we live as a community.

Because when the world sees Jesus in us, it catches a glimpse of God’s Kingdom breaking into the world—healing what is broken, binding up the wounded, and drawing all people to him.

And that, my friends, is not only the best way to honor Mary’s witness—it’s the very heart of our calling as followers of Jesus.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13C)
August 3, 2025

Text: Luke 12: 13-21

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.

A few weeks ago, I did something that may not seem like a big deal—but it’s had a profound impact on my life. I shared a little about it in the newsletter recently.

I decided to delete Facebook and Instagram from my phone.

Now, I didn’t delete my accounts. I can still log in from my computer if I need to, especially for church-related things. And I didn’t do it because I think social media is bad or wrong.

There’s a lot I really like about it—sweet family updates, funny videos, thoughtful reflections. Social media can be a real gift when it helps us stay connected to the people we love and care about.

But I removed the apps from my phone because I realized I was spending way too much time with my head down, staring at a screen.

It was automatic. Every quiet moment—waking up in the morning, standing in line at the store, waiting for the coffee to brew—I’d reach for my phone and open one of those apps without even thinking about it.

And it wasn’t just the time I was spending. It was also the weight of it all.

So much negativity. So much division. So much bad news.

And behind all of that, this constant, subtle pressure to compare my life to someone else’s. Their vacation, their success, their church, their home. I’d start to wonder if I was doing enough or if I even was enough.

Little by little, it started to wear on my spirit. I felt more anxious, more discouraged—like the world was too broken, and I was too small to make any difference.

So, I deleted the apps.

And what surprised me most was what happened after that.

I felt peace. I don’t mean just a little relief—but an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom. I felt less anxious. More clearheaded. More present. More like myself.

And I started to wonder: how much space had all that noise been taking up in my heart?

And—maybe more to the point—what was it all for?

That question—“what is all of this for?”—stopped me in my tracks. It’s the same question Jesus invites us to ask in today’s Gospel.

In our story from Luke, Jesus tells the crowd a parable about a rich man whose land produces an abundance of grain—so much that he runs out of room to store it all.

So, he comes up with a solution: tear down his old barns and build bigger ones. That way, he thinks, he’ll be safe and secure secure. He’ll have more than enough to just relax and enjoy life for years to come.

But just as he’s patting himself on the back, God speaks.

“You fool,” God says, “This very night your life will be demanded of you. And the things you’ve prepared—whose will they be?”

Then Jesus ends with this line: “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

In other words—it’s foolish to pour all our energy into securing and storing up things for ourselves, while ignoring the things that matter most to God.

Now, to be fair, the man in the parable isn’t portrayed as evil or cruel. He doesn’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t cheat or steal. He’s not greedy in the way we might expect.

But here’s the problem: he thinks his life can be secured by what he stores up.

He thinks he can protect himself from the unknown by building bigger barns.

In one way or another, we all do that.

We all build barns—not literal barns full of grain, but spiritual ones. Internal ones. Ways of trying to keep ourselves safe, in control, or just a little more secure.

Some of us build barns with money. Not because we’re selfish, but because we’re afraid. We think, “If I can just get a little more saved up, if I can stay a little more ahead, then I’ll be okay.”

There’s nothing wrong with planning or saving. But sometimes our barns become walls—walls that keep us from being generous, or trusting that God will provide.

Some of us build barns with busyness. We fill every hour of every day—work, school, errands, ballgames, meetings, care-taking. Even good and noble things, like volunteering at church.

But sometimes, busyness becomes a barn we hide in—a way to avoid the deeper parts of our hearts that are longing for rest or healing.

Some of us build barns out of achievements. We believe that if we’re successful enough, productive enough, capable enough—then we’ll be worthy of love.

But the bar keeps moving. There’s always something more to fix, more to prove, more to achieve.

Some of us build barns out of screens. We scroll endlessly. We compare our real lives to someone else’s highlight reel. We let the world shout at us through every device we own.

And instead of feeling connected, we feel lonelier. Instead of clarity, we feel overwhelmed. Instead of peace, we carry noise.

Some of us build barns out of grudges or regret. We store up old wounds like they’re treasure. We replay past mistakes over and over again.

And instead of offering those to God for healing, we box them up, tuck them away, and carry them around with us.

And some of us build barns out of worry. We worry about our children, our future, our health, our church, our world. Worry becomes the barn we live in—always bracing for what’s next, always trying to stay in control.

But here’s the hard truth about the barns we build:

None of them can hold what we really need.

They may give the illusion of security or success or comfort. But they can’t give us peace. They can’t give us joy. They can’t teach us how to love, or help us live the kind of life that God wants us to live.

Jesus tells this parable not to shame us—but to set us free.

To say: “Your life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”

Your life—your real, meaningful, holy, God-given life—isn’t measured by what you accumulate or how well you perform.

It’s measured by how much room you make for the things that last:

Grace.

Gratitude.

Generosity.

Relationship.

Trust.

Love.

That’s what it means to be “rich toward God.”

To be rich toward God means we don’t store up everything for ourselves. We open our hands. We make space. We notice others. We trust that what we have—what we are—is already enough.

When I deleted those social media apps, I didn’t expect to feel so free.

But it was like tearing down a little barn I didn’t even know I’d built. A barn full of comparison, distraction, pressure, and fear.

And in the quiet that followed, I heard God’s voice more clearly. I started praying more. I noticed beauty around me. I felt more present. More grounded. More at peace.

I remembered: God isn’t interested in how much we collect or achieve.

God is interested in how much we love.

How much we trust.

How much we’re willing to be present—to others and to God.

Jesus ends his parable with a challenge—but also an invitation.

Tear down the barns that are holding you back.

Tear down the idea that you’re only as valuable as what you own, or what you do, or what you look like.

Tear down the busyness, the fear, the comparison, the distraction.

And make space for something better.

Because the truth is, none of us is guaranteed tomorrow.

Our lives are short, but they can be full.

Not full of noise or distractions. But full of God.

So today, maybe Jesus is inviting you to name one barn you’ve built.

Maybe it’s a schedule that’s too full.

Maybe it’s a grudge you’ve been holding on to for a long time.

Maybe it’s a voice in your head that tells you you’re not enough.

Or, maybe it’s a screen that’s keeping you distracted from your own life.

Whatever it is, name it—and tear it down.

Because on the other side of that barn, there is freedom.

There is peace.

And there is more life than you can imagine.

Not because of what you store up—but because of what God pours out.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9C)
July 6, 2025

Text: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

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

If you’ve heard me preach before, you probably know that I often talk about my experience of coming to the Episcopal Church for the first time when I was a student at Auburn.

And the reason I return to that story so often—even though it’s been over twenty years since I graduated—is because that experience changed my life. It was formational to who I am today—not just as a Christian or a priest, but as a husband and a father. My years at St. Dunstan’s in Auburn are a touchstone in my spiritual journey, filled with sacred memories that continue to shape me.

It’s where I first learned about the radical love and hospitality of Jesus—who calls us, first and foremost, to love and serve our neighbors as ourselves.

It’s where I learned that it’s okay if you don’t have all the answers figured out, or if you’re still trying to find your way. You can come to church with questions—even doubts—and still be a faithful Christian.

St. Dunstan’s is where I first learned that faith isn’t built through guilt or shame, or by trying to convince people to think and believe the same way. Faith is built through relationships—through trust, presence, and shared life together.

When I was new to the Episcopal Church, I wasn’t sure if I belonged. I didn’t know what I was doing in worship. I didn’t know the hymns. I had no idea how to use the Prayer Book, or when to sit, stand, or kneel during the service.

But I was curious. And thankfully, there were people all around me who were there to help.

At St. Dunstan’s, our Sunday services were held in the evening to make it easier for college students to attend. And every Sunday, during the announcements, our priest would invite everyone to stay for dinner afterward.

What a brilliant idea—to feed hungry college students! But it wasn’t just for students. We had newcomers like me, cradle Episcopalians, faculty members, older adults, and young children. It was a full expression of the church—a community of people from all walks of life gathered around a single table.

Father Wells always used to say, “Join us for dinner after the service. It’s only $2.00, and if you don’t have $2.00, then it’s free!” And he meant it.

Most Sundays, I had at least $2.00 to drop in the collection box. But even on the days I didn’t, no one said a word. They were just happy I was there.

As I became more involved, I started looking forward to those Sunday Suppers as much as I did the worship. Because it was around that dinner table where strangers became friends. Where we could be honest and open about what was on our minds and in our hearts. Where we shared our joys and our struggles.

It was around the dinner table that my faith in Jesus grew—just as it did at the Altar each week when we received Communion. Jesus was present in both: in the sacrament, yes—but also in the fellowship and the breaking of bread that followed.

I share this with you because I think we often make sharing the Gospel more complicated than it needs to be.

We think we have to have the right words, the right arguments, or the perfect explanation—as if it’s our job to convince people to follow Jesus.

But that’s not our calling.

Our call is not to convert people or to tell them they’re wrong and we’re right. Our call is not to make people think or believe the same way we do.

Our call is to share the Good News of God in Christ—to proclaim, in word and in action, that this Jesus who was crucified and risen has come to save us all and to reconcile us with God and with each other.

Our call is to show that the way of Jesus—the way of sacrificial love, humility, and peace—is the way that leads to abundant life.

And that kind of Gospel-sharing, that kind of love—it takes time. It takes presence. It takes relationships.

One of the best ways we can build those relationships is around a dinner table.

Because something holy happens when we share a meal.

The walls we build around ourselves begin to come down. Our guard drops. We listen more. We speak more honestly. And in that sacred space, we often discover that we have far more in common than we thought. We’re all just pilgrims on the journey, doing our best to live as God intended.

In our Gospel passage from Luke 10, Jesus is preparing to visit towns and villages on his way to Jerusalem. But instead of going alone, he sends seventy of his disciples ahead of him, two by two.

Now think about that.

Jesus could’ve done it all himself. He was going to those towns and villages anyway.

But instead, he sends ordinary people—disciples like you and me—ahead of him, to lay the groundwork, to prepare hearts, and to proclaim peace.

He warns them they’ll be vulnerable—“like sheep among wolves.” He tells them to carry no bag, no money, no sandals. The mission is simple. Show up. Be present. Offer peace.

“Go and meet people where they are,” Jesus says.

“Don’t go with an agenda.”

“Don’t expect to change minds or win arguments.”

“Just go and proclaim peace.”

“Go and receive the hospitality offered to you.”

“Eat what is placed before you.”

“Listen. Heal. Be present.”

“Let them know that the Kingdom of God has come near.”

And here’s the part that always strikes me—Jesus tells them that even if people reject you, even if they don’t want to listen, still say this:

“The Kingdom of God has come near.”

This passage from Luke flips the script on how we often think about mission and ministry.

We usually assume ministry is something we do for others—especially for those in need. But that’s not what’s happening here.

The disciples aren’t sent to “fix” or “serve” others. They’re sent to be in relationship with them. They’re sent to receive hospitality. To share life. To be present.

Jesus didn’t send them with a script. He didn’t tell them to win arguments or build churches or convert the masses.

He sent them to do something simpler—and much harder.

Offer peace. Receive welcome. Build relationships.

That’s Jesus’ model for evangelism. And it’s what we’re still called to do today.

You don’t have to be a priest to share the Gospel.

You don’t have to know the Bible backward and forward.

You don’t need to be an expert theologian or a master of church history.

You just have to show up. You have to care. You have to be willing to sit at the table and say, “You’re welcome here.”

That’s what I experienced all those years ago at St. Dunstan’s. I didn’t realize it then, but what I found around that table was the church at its best—the Gospel in action. Not because someone preached a powerful sermon, but because someone passed the bread. Because someone made room for me. Because someone said, “We’re glad you’re here.”

That’s how the Kingdom of God comes near.

That’s how lives are changed.

And I believe with all my heart that the Gospel is still best shared this way—not through coercion, not through debate, but through hospitality and hope.

Through good food and honest conversation.

Through laughter and vulnerability.

Through people who are willing to be sent out with nothing but the love of Christ and the courage to share it.

So let’s be that kind of church.

Let’s be a church that puts relationship before perfection.

Let’s be a church that values welcome over performance.

Let’s be a church that sees every table—whether it’s the Altar or the dinner table—as holy ground.

Because when we go into the world with peace, when we sit down with others and really listen, when we break bread together in Jesus’ name—he is already there.

“Whoever listens to you listens to me,” Jesus says. “The Kingdom of God has come near.”

It comes near when you bring a meal to someone who is grieving.

It comes near when you welcome someone the world has forgotten.

It comes near when you make space at your table—not just for food, but for belonging.

So go.

Be sent.

Not with fear, but with joy.

Go and share the love that changed your life with someone else.

Go and declare—not just with words, but with presence, peace, and open hearts: “The Kingdom of God has come near.”

Amen.