Tag Archives: christianity

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.

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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.”

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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.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter (Year C)
May 4, 2025

Text: John 21:1-19

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

Have you ever felt like you turned your back on God? Have you ever had a moment when you realized how far you’ve fallen away and were unsure if God could ever forgive you?

Not just a little bit.

I’m talking about a time when you really messed up and felt like you let God down.

If so, you’re in good company.

Because I think all of us, at one time or another, have felt like that.

Maybe we promised to do something, and, for whatever reason, we didn’t do it.

Or, maybe the fire we once had for coming to church and being involved in ministry has fizzled out, and we no longer feel connected in the same way we used to.

Or, maybe the wellspring in our souls has dried up, and we no longer feel close to God and wonder if he’s even there.

If any of those sound familiar to you—know that aren’t alone.

We’ve all struggled with failure.

We’ve all fallen short of our call to walk in love as Christ taught us.

We’ve all experienced moments of doubt and uncertainty.

And, hopefully—for all of us—we’ve known what it means to be forgiven and restored.

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A few years ago, after the worst of the pandemic was over, I found myself spiritually and emotionally exhausted.

I was serving at a small parish in Alabaster at the time—just outside of Birmingham.

The pressures of having to lead a church during COVID were heavy, but even harder than that was having to come back to church and pick up the pieces after it was over.

When things began to return to “normal” (if you could call it that), I realized that I wasn’t okay.

Something had changed.

I was exhausted all the time and frustrated that people weren’t come back to church, and I began to seriously question if God was still calling me to be a priest.

I was in the process of slowly burning out in my ministry.

I was still showing up to church when I needed to and leading services on Sunday mornings, but my spirit just wasn’t in it.

I felt like a failure.

I felt distant and dried up, and I finally came to realize that, if something didn’t change, I wasn’t going to make it as a priest.

In my prayers, I asked God to show me the way and to lead me where he would have me go.

As it turns out, the place where he was calling me to go was right back to where the story of my life began.

So, we moved back home to Andalusia, and we found a community at St. Mary’s that loved us and welcomed us in with open arms.

A community with a passion for service and outreach.

A community that takes very seriously our call to live and love like Jesus.

And, it was during that time when I found that fire again that I once had.

It was during that time when I realized that God wasn’t done with me yet—that God still had important work for me to do as a priest.

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I want to take you back a couple of weeks to Good Friday.

If you were in church that day, you heard the story of our Lord’s Passion and death retold from John’s Gospel.

At the beginning of the story, after Jesus was arrested in the garden and taken away, Simon Peter and another disciple followed behind him.

They came to the courtyard of the high priest, which is where Jesus had been taken for questioning.

The other disciple—the one who was with Peter—was known to the high priest.

So, he was allowed to go in with Jesus while Peter had to stay outside.

The other disciple went out and spoke to the woman who was guarding the gate and convinced her to let Peter in.

The woman asked Peter, “Aren’t you one of this man’s disciples?”

Peter responded, “I am not.”

The servants and police who were standing in the courtyard had made a charcoal fire in order to stay warm.

Peter also stood with them next to the fire.

A little while later, after Jesus was questioned by the high priest, Simon Peter was still standing next to the fire in the courtyard.

The others who were there asked him, “Aren’t you one of his disciples?”

Peter denied it.

“Not me” he said.

Then, finally, one of the high priest’s servants, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off in the garden, said, “Didn’t I see you in the garden with him?”

Again, Peter denied it, and at that moment, a rooster crowed.

Peter knew what he had done and immediately remembered what Jesus had said to him earlier that night.

“Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.”

That’s the last time we hear from Peter in John’s Gospel until after Jesus is raised from the dead.

But, Luke’s Gospel adds even more emotional weight to the story.

In Luke’s version, after Peter denies Jesus a third time, Jesus turns and looks at him, and he remembers what Jesus told him.

Luke’s version of the story also adds that Peter went out and wept bitterly.

He had failed as a disciple.

He had failed his friend and teacher.

How could Jesus ever forgive him?

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Thankfully, Peter’s story doesn’t end there.

Later in John’s Gospel, in chapter 21—which is where our story picks up today—we learn that Jesus appears to his disciples one final time after his resurrection.

This time, Simon Peter—along with six others—are fishing along the Sea of Galilee.

They’ve been fishing all night long and haven’t caught a single fish.

Soon, after day break, Jesus appears on the beach, but they don’t recognize him at first.

He says to the disciples, “Good morning! Did you catch anything for breakfast?”

They tell him no.

So, he tells them to throw their net to the right side of the boat and see what happens.

They do as they’re told, and all of a sudden, there are so many fish in the net that they can’t pull it back in the boat.

At once, the beloved disciple recognizes Jesus and says to Simon Peter, “It is the Lord!”

Simon Peter wastes no time.

He puts his clothes back on, dives into the water, and swims to shore.

A little while later, the other disciples come in by boat, pulling the net full of fish behind them.

Jesus tells them to bring some of the fish they caught and join him on the beach for breakfast.

After breakfast, Peter is alone with Jesus on the beach.

It doesn’t say this in the Gospel, but in my holy imagination, he’s anxiously waiting to hear what Jesus will say.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together since the night when he turned away from Jesus.

He’s probably thinking to himself, “Will he be angry?”

“Will he be disappointed?”

Or, worst of all, “Will he be done with me?”

Jesus takes him aside and says, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

Peter says, “Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”

“Feed my lambs,” Jesus says.

A second time, Jesus says to Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

And a second time, Peter responds, “Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”

“Tend my sheep,” Jesus says.

A final time, Jesus says to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

This time, Peter feels hurt.

Maybe it was because he desperately wanted Jesus to believe him.

Or, maybe it was because of the shame and guilt he felt from denying Jesus and abandoning him in his most desperate time of need.

He says to Jesus, “Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.”

“Feed my sheep,” Jesus says.

Three times, Jesus asks, “Do you love me,” taking Peter right back to that night when he denied Jesus three times.

Three questions for three denials.

It’s not to scold him or make him feel worse about what he’s done.

It’s not to shame him or make him feel guilty.

It’s his way of bringing Peter back to life again.

In that moment, Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter.

He does something far more miraculous.

He restores him.

And—even more than that—he reassures Peter that there is still a place for him.

Despite his failure, all is not lost.

This is why Jesus doesn’t just say, “I forgive you.”

He says, “Feed my sheep.”

In other words, “It’s time to get back to who you are and who you were called to be.”

Maybe, in that moment, Peter was taken even further back in his story with Jesus and reminded of the time when he and his brother, Andrew, were called to follow.

The very first time Jesus laid his eyes on Simon, he looked up and said, “You are Simon, son of John. From now on your name is Cephas.” (or Peter, which means “Rock”).

When we fall away from God, Jesus makes a way for us to come back.

When we fail God or fall short in our calling, Jesus doesn’t just forgive us. He restores us to fullness of life.

When we struggle with doubt and uncertainty—when we wonder whether or not God can still use us, despite our worst mistakes—Jesus is there to remind us of who we are and who we were called to be.

“Feed my sheep,” Jesus says.

It’s not just for Peter.

It’s for all of us.

It’s for all of us who have answered God’s call to follow and who need to be reminded of God’s grace and mercy.

It’s for all of us who need to be reminded that God isn’t done with us yet—that there’s still a place for us next to Jesus and much work still to be done.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year C)
March 15, 2025

Text: Luke 13:31-35

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

Our lesson today from the Gospel of Luke takes place as Jesus and his disciples are on their way to Jerusalem. They’ve been stopping in various towns and villages along the way in order for Jesus to teach and heal the sick when suddenly, a group of Pharisees come up to Jesus and warn him that Herod Antipas—the local ruler of Galilee and the person responsible for killing John the Baptist—is out for blood.

He sees Jesus as a threat to his power and authority, and he wants him out of the picture.

But, Jesus has no concern over Herod’s threats.

He tells this group of Pharisees, these religious leaders, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.’”

The only concern Jesus has in that moment is being faithful to God and completing the mission he’s been given to do—to open the way of salvation for all people and to bring healing and restoration to the world.

He isn’t worried about himself or his own well-being.

The only thing he’s focused on is fulfilling his mission.

But, Jesus knows that his time is short.

Soon, he and his disciples will arrive at the city gates.

Jesus will be welcomed by crowds of people with great joy and celebration, waving branches from trees and laying them on the ground, making a path for him to enter the city.

But, the celebration will be short-lived.

Eventually, the crowds who welcome him into the city with shouts of “Hosanna!” will be the same ones who call for him to be crucified.

He knows that Jerusalem is the city where God’s messengers go to die.

And, he laments over the fact that, despite his best efforts to share the message of God’s love with the people he came to save, they will reject him and hand him over to suffering and death.

He says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!”

“How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

“See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

I love that phrase Jesus uses.

“…as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…”

I think it’s such a beautiful image.

Jesus describes his love for God’s people by comparing himself to a mother hen who takes care of her brood.

Now, I’ll be honest.

I don’t know much about farming or farm animals, but I do know that hens—when they’re brooding—are fiercely protective.

They will do anything to protect their chicks from danger, even at the cost of their own safety and well-being.

In the first century, the Greek historian, Plutarch, praised the many ways that mother hens cherish and protect their chicks, lifting them up as a symbol of motherhood.

He once wrote, “…we have before our eyes every day the manner in which hens care for their brood, drooping their wings for some to creep under, and receiving with joyous and affectionate clucks others that mount upon their backs or run up to them from every direction; and though they flee from dogs and snakes if they are frightened only for themselves, if their fright is for their children, they stand their ground and fight it out beyond their strength.”

The 16th century Italian naturalist and writer, Ulisse Aldrovandi, once described how, at the first sign of a predator, mother hens will immediately gather their chicks “under the shadow of their wings, and with this covering they put up such a very fierce defense—striking fear into their opponent in the midst of a frightful clamor—using both wings and beak—they would rather die for their chicks than seek safety in flight.”

He also describes how a mother hen allows her chicks to eat their fill before satisfying her own hunger.

Thus, he said, mother hens present, in every way, “a noble example of love for their offspring.”

A mother hen provides protection and warmth and comfort for her chicks, always putting the needs and safety of her offspring before her own.

Some might describe this as the kind of love a mother has for her children.

Another word I would use to describe it is selfless.

So, I think it’s perfect that Jesus uses the image of a mother hen to describe the kind of love he feels for God’s children.

It’s the reason why he laments over the city of Jerusalem.

His selfless love for the people there—and for all of God’s children—is like the love a mother hen has for her chicks.

He would do anything to save them—including lay down his own life.

This is the depth of God’s love for each of us.

A love that will be on full display in just a few short weeks when we come to Palm Sunday and our journey through Holy Week.

A love that will lead our Savior to be nailed to a cross.

And yet, we reject God’s love every time we refuse to listen to Jesus and live our lives as he’s called us to live.

In our Gospel lesson for today, Jesus isn’t grieving over the fact that he’s going to be killed in Jerusalem.

He’s grieving for the people there who will fail to recognize him as the Lord’s Messiah and refuse to accept his message of God’s redeeming love.

As much as it pains me to say this, I think Jesus grieves for us as well.

Jesus grieves for us every time we refuse to listen to him and choose instead to follow our own, selfish ways.

Jesus grieves for us every time we refuse to forgive those who’ve hurt us or caused us harm.

Jesus grieves for us every time we see someone hungry or in need and do nothing to help.

Jesus grieves for us every time we stand idly by and allow God’s children to be oppressed or taken advantage of.

Jesus grieves.

But, Jesus also forgives and longs for us to repent and return to the Lord.

Because—like a mother hen cares for her brood—it’s only under the shadow of his wings where we’ll find true peace and joy with our God.

In order to get there—in order to find that peace and joy we seek in our lives—we have to learn to listen for his voice and answer his call to follow.

When you think about it, that’s really the purpose of this season of Lent—this special time we set aside each year to renew our relationship with God.

Sometimes, we get off track and forget how to listen for the sound of Jesus’ voice calling to us in our lives.

Sometimes, we choose to go our own way instead of following the one who came to live and die as one of us and show us the way to eternal life with God.

And so, we learn how to listen again with open minds and open hearts.

We learn how to love again as Jesus taught us to love.

And, we’re reminded, once again, that our true home is with God, under the shadow and protection of his wings.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year C)
February 9, 2025

Text: Luke 5:1-11

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.

When I was a teenager, I never dreamed that I would one day be a priest in the Episcopal Church.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know what the word “Episcopal” meant until I was a junior in college.

I went to school to study music education with the hope that, one day, I would get a great job teaching music to high school students and enjoy a long career as a choir director.

When I made the decision to study music in college, I felt sure that it was the right path for me to take.

Music had been such an important part of my life in junior high and high school, and being a choir director was something I knew I could do really well, something I knew I would enjoy doing.

So, I worked hard and eventually graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music education.

I began teaching at a high school in Savannah, Georgia, and for the most part, it was wonderful!

After years of hard work, I was finally getting the chance to do the work that I felt called to do.

But, something happened during my first year of teaching—something I never saw coming.

It was almost like a light switch was turned on.

I started asking myself questions like, “Is this really what God wants me to do with my life?”

“Am I really being called to be a music teacher? Or, is there something else I should be doing?”

“What if God is calling me to be a priest?”

“A priest! How ridiculous!” I thought.

“I’m still a brand new Episcopalian! I’ve only been confirmed for about a year.”

“Who do I think I am? There’s no way that God could be calling me to be a priest!”

So, I quickly dismissed the idea and continued on with my career as a teacher, but those thoughts and those questions never completely went away.

About two years later, I was teaching music at a different school, and I was finally able to talk with someone about these thoughts and feelings I’d been having about the priesthood.

I was finally able to say the words out loud.

“I think God may be calling me to be a priest.”

I can honestly say that I’ve never experienced such a weight lifted from my shoulders as I did in that moment.

It felt as if I was finally able to pass through this door that God had prepared especially for me, a door that God was waiting for me to walk through.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy as a teacher.

I could’ve kept teaching for the rest of my life and been perfectly fine.

But, I always would’ve felt this lingering sense that something was missing.

They say that when God calls someone to a particular ministry, that call doesn’t just go away. God is persistent.

And, for me, what started as a gentle nudge from God eventually turned into a calling that I could no longer ignore.

I wanted to share this with you today because the truth of the matter is that all of us—not just me or anyone else who wears a collar—all of us are called by God to serve in some way.

And, I think all of us—at least at some point in our lives—have questioned whether or not God could actually use us in ministry.

Because, let’s be honest.

Most of us are really good at doubting our own self-worth.

We’re really good at putting ourselves down and coming up with reasons why we shouldn’t do something we feel called to do.

We have this internal voice that tries to convince us of things like, “You’re not good enough.” Or, “You’re not smart enough.” Or, “You have no business serving anyone else when you can’t even get your own life together.”

“What makes you think God can use you?”

Does any of that sound familiar?

We’ve all struggled with these thoughts.

And, I’m here to tell you, dear friends, that it’s all a lie.

God can use you, just as you are.

You are enough, despite what the world or anyone else may try to tell you.

God is calling you by name to love and serve others in the name of Jesus Christ.

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In our Gospel lesson this morning from Luke, we hear the story of Jesus calling his first disciples, which happens not long after a series of healings in Galilee, including the healing of Simon Peter’s mother-in-law.

Jesus is standing near the lake of Gennesaret, which was another name for the Sea of Galilee, when a crowd starts to gather around him to hear his teaching.

The crowd gets so large that the people start to press in on Jesus.

So, he decides to get into one of the fishing boats he sees on the shore, the one belonging to Simon Peter.

And, he asks Simon to push the boat out a little from the shore.

Then, he sits down in the boat and begins to teach.

When he’s done teaching, he tells Simon to take the boat further out into the lake where it’s deeper and to let his nets down into the water for a catch.

Simon and the other fishermen are tired from working all night long and not catching anything.

So, he thinks it’s pointless to try and catch anything at this point.

But, he tells Jesus, “If you say so, I will let down the nets.”

So, he puts the nets down into the water, and when he draws them back up again, they’re filled with so many fish that the nets start to break.

He calls the fishermen in the other boat to come and help, and by the time they’re done, both boats are loaded down with so many fish that they start to sink.

Simon Peter is so amazed by what he’s witnessed—so overwhelmed with emotion—that he falls down on his knees and says to Jesus, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

It’s his way of saying to Jesus, “I’m not worthy.”

“I’m not good enough to stand in your presence.”

I like to imagine that, in that moment, Jesus stopped what he was doing and smiled at Simon Peter and thought to himself…

“If you could only see yourself as God sees you, Simon.”

“Then, you might start to understand that you are worthy of God’s love and compassion and that you’re so much more than your worst mistakes and failures.”

“You are God’s beloved, and God has called you for a special purpose.”

Jesus tells Simon Peter, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

And, as soon as they return to shore, Simon, along with James and John, drop everything they own and follow Jesus.

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Unfortunately, we don’t have Jesus standing right in front of us, pointing us in the direction we’re meant to walk.

In our own lives, the call to follow Jesus isn’t always so easy to hear.

Sometimes, we don’t know what it is that God is calling us to do with our lives.

And so we pray and try to listen for God’s voice, and we rely on each other to help guide us and keep us on track.

In the church, we have a special name for this process of exploring our call.

We call it discernment.

It’s a way of being open to the movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives, without any agenda or selfish ambition.

It’s a way of being honest with ourselves and open to where God is leading us to go.

Through that process, we ask ourselves questions, like “What are the gifts God has given me?”

“What talents do I have?”

“Where am I needed the most?”

And, we do a bit of holy imagining, wondering and dreaming about the possibilities of how God might be calling us to use those gifts and talents we’ve been given to help others.

Frederick Buechner, the Christian writer and theologian, once wrote that “Vocation (or our calling) is the place where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.”

I’ve always loved that definition.

And, I think it’s a helpful way of thinking about the process of discerning one’s call.

Of course, when you finally get to the point where you start to feel that nudge or that tug on your heart to serve in some way—when you start to feel God’s call—then comes the hard part.

Saying “yes.”

Because when we say “yes” to God—when we say, “Here I am, Lord, send me,” it often means we have to give up something else in return.

Like the first disciples did when they left everything behind to follow Jesus.

But, we can trust that when we do say “yes” to God’s call, God will be with us every step of the way.

The process of discernment is a spiritual discipline, and it’s an important part of our Christian faith.

Because every single one of us, by virtue of our baptism in Christ, has been called to a life of ministry and service.

Despite our shortcomings and mistakes, despite our self-doubt and fear of the unknown, God can use all of us as instruments of his love and mercy in the world.

God can use you, just as you are.

You are enough, despite what the world or anyone else may try to tell you.

God is calling you by name to love and serve others in the name of Jesus Christ.

All you have to do is say “yes.”

Amen.

A Sermon for the Feast of the Presentation
Sunday, February 2, 2025

Text: Luke 2:22-40

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 couple of weeks ago, I came across a video that was posted on YouTube several years ago, featuring the popular songwriter and jazz musician, Jon Batiste.

The video was from a commencement address he delivered in May of 2017 at Salve Regina University in Newport, Rhode Island.

During his address, he shared a story with the audience—one that he had never shared before—about a time when his band started venturing out and playing at venues that were out of the ordinary.

They were used to playing in jazz clubs and music halls for people who were already huge fans of their music, and they wanted to reach out and introduce other audiences to it.

So, they started playing in different kinds of places like hip hop clubs and opening for rap artists.

As Jon describes it in the video, there was this one time they were playing in a new venue, and before the band even played their first note, the audience started booing and telling them to get off the stage and go home.

The band didn’t know what to do.

They started questioning themselves, wondering whether or not they needed to change what they were planning to do.

So, on the fly and without even rehearsing it first, they started to play a completely different set of music.

About five minutes in, Jon made a decision.

In his own words, he decided they were going to “stick to the script.”

And, they started playing the music they had always played, even through all the “boos.”

When the audience started booing louder, the band got louder, and they kept going back and forth until finally, one of the band members—who was playing the tambourine—accidentally knocked over one of the microphones.

There was feedback from the mic hitting the floor, and for the first time in twenty minutes, there was complete silence.

Everyone in the audience started looking around at each other, and then slowly, they all started clapping for the band.

And, in that moment, at a small dive bar in Philadelphia, Jon realized something very important.

In his speech, he looked directly at the graduating class and told them, “Don’t change who you are to fit the circumstances around you.”

Because at some point in your lives you’re going to be in a situation where the people around you don’t share your values.

When that happens, it’ll test your character, but on the other side of that test, you’ll become even stronger in your values and more confident in who you are.

I think there’s great wisdom in Jon’s speech.

And, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about what he said and how that applies to our Christian faith and life.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our identity as Christians.

In other words, “Who do we say we are as followers of Jesus, and what are the values we hold dear?”

I think these are really important questions to be asking ourselves right now.

Because, dear friends, we seem to be living in a time when people are questioning—perhaps more than ever before—what it means to be a Christian in the world.

And, there are a lot of people right now who seem to think they have all the answers figured out and that the only way to be a true Christian is to think and believe the same way they do.

Unfortunately, I think a lot of it has to do with the current political climate in our country.

People are more divided than ever.

We see it all around us—in the news, on social media, and even in the Church.

There are some who insist that the only way to be a faithful Christian is if you support a certain political party or vote for a particular candidate.

Our identity as Christians—who we say we are and what we believe—is being tested, and it’s up to us to decide how we’re going to respond.

Do we change who we are to fit the circumstances around us?

Or, do we “stick to the script” and remain faithful to who God is calling us to be as followers of Jesus?

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Today is a special feast day in the life of the Church.

In the Prayer Book, it’s called “The Presentation of our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple.” Or, you could just call it “The Feast of the Presentation.”

On this day, we remember the story from Luke’s Gospel about how Mary and Joseph brought the infant Jesus to the temple in Jerusalem to be presented before the Lord.

Jesus was Mary and Joseph’s first-born son, and so, it was expected that they would bring the baby to the temple to be presented, in accordance with Jewish law.

This was also the time when Mary would go through ritual of purification after giving birth to Jesus, which was also a requirement of the law.

The author of Luke’s Gospel tells us that there was a man in Jerusalem at the time named Simeon, who was a devout follower of God and who had great hope that God would one day redeem Israel by sending his Messiah to save them all.

Luke also tells us that it had been revealed to Simeon by the Holy Spirit that, because of his great faith in God, he would not die before first seeing the Lord’s Messiah.

When Mary and Joseph enter the temple with the infant Jesus, Simeon is already there. 

He walks over to the Holy Family and takes the baby into his arms.

In that moment, Simeon knows that God has fulfilled his promise, and he begins praising God, saying:

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace,
according to your word;

for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.

If these words sound familiar to you it’s because we use them often in the Episcopal Church, especially in our services of Evening Prayer and Compline.

And, we prayed them earlier this morning at the beginning of the service.

These words are commonly known as “The Song of Simeon” or Nunc dimittis.

And, they speak of God’s great love and mercy for the whole world.

Simeon recognized the infant Jesus for who he truly was—

The long-awaited Messiah, the Anointed One, who will bring redemption and peace—not only to Israel—but to every nation and corner of the world.

He’ll be the One who, in the words of the Prophet Isaiah, will bring good news to the poor.

The One who will proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind.

The One who will let the oppressed go free and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

This Jesus—the only-begotten Son of God, who was born among us and who came to live and die as one of us—will be the One who saves us all.

Through his life and ministry, through his glorious death and resurrection, we who proclaim Jesus as our Lord and Savior have come to know who God is and what God has called us to do in our lives.

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So, back to my questions from earlier about who we are as Christians.

It’s really quite simple.

We’re a people who not only invite Jesus into our hearts but also a people who strive to live in Christ.

In every thought, in every word, and action, we are called to make the love of God in Christ Jesus known to the world.

That’s who we are.

That’s our identity.

It’s not some political party or who we voted for in the last election.

It’s Jesus.

And, if we can be committed to holding on to that ideal—and not allowing outside influences to convince us otherwise, then maybe there’s a chance that we can make a real difference in the world around us.

Maybe there’s a chance that our church can be a symbol of unity, drawing people together rather than tearing people apart.

Maybe we can be a sign of hope for the world that all is not lost—that there’s still a place for mutual love and respect for each other, despite our differences.

I want to circle back to Jon Batiste for a moment and leave you with one final thought.

At the end of his commencement address, he encouraged the graduates to take some time to think about their purpose in life.

And, he left them with an exercise to do after graduation.

He told them, “After you leave here, take a piece of paper. Write down at the top, ‘This is who I am.’ And, then just start listing things.”

He told them it didn’t matter how different they were. Just start listing.

And, then start to think about how all of those things are connected.

He said, “That’s your integrity. When you make those connections, that’s who you are in its rawest sense.”

Then, he told them to take another sheet of paper and to write at the top, “These are my prayers. And think about who, what, and how you want to serve other people with that first list.”

If we were to take Jon’s advice and do this exercise on our own—as individuals, we would all have different lists because God has given each of us different gifts and talents and called us to serve in different ways.

But, in our shared life together as a church, we have one list.

One list of vows and responsibilities that unite as one Body in Christ, despite our differences.

One list that reminds us from time to time of who we are as Christians and what we’re called to.

One list of values that we all believe in, that shape who we are as a community of faith.

It’s called the Baptismal Covenant.

As Episcopalians, it’s our way of expressing our love for God and our commitment to follow Christ in all that we say and do.

And, I’m thankful for it.

I’m thankful that we belong to a church that recognizes the fact that we don’t all have to agree on everything in order to belong, that there’s a place for everyone at God’s Table.

And we really mean everyone.

I’m thankful that we belong to a church that not only preaches a message of God’s love and radical hospitality but that we also live it out in the ways we seek to love and serve Christ in all persons.

As I mentioned in the newsletter this past week, we belong to a church that makes room for seekers and skeptics alike, recognizing that the journey of faith is a life-long journey, one with hills and valleys, and that it’s okay to have questions and even doubts.

This is a church where you don’t have to have all the answers figured out.

(In fact, we prefer that you don’t.)

But know this.

As you wrestle with the hard questions and as you seek to discover more about what it means to be a Christian and how to follow Jesus in his way of love, you’ll have a community who will walk with you and support you every step of the way. Thanks be to God.

Amen.