Tag Archives: god

Look Again

A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent (Year A)
December 14, 2025

Text: Matthew 11:2-11

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.

Chelsea and I were sitting on the couch the other day, trying to pick out a Christmas movie to watch. And you know how that goes—you keep scrolling through all the channels, thinking, surely we’re going to find something good to watch.

And before you know it, you’ve spent more time choosing a movie than it would have taken to actually watch one.

Then I remembered a movie I’d been meaning to watch for a while called The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.

It’s a relatively new film—only about a year old—but it’s based on a much older and well-loved book by Barbara Robinson.

The book was written back in the 1970s, and Robinson once said it was inspired by her own experiences watching children—real, imperfect children—show up in church pageants and somehow reveal the heart of the Christmas story in ways adults often missed.

She wasn’t trying to write a sweet Christmas story. She was trying to tell the truth about how God tends to work: not always through the polished and prepared, but often through the unexpected.

So Chelsea and I finally watched it. And I have to say—it really is a good movie. If you’re looking for something meaningful to watch this season with your family, I highly recommend it.

If you know the story, you remember the Herdmans.

They’re a group of brothers and sisters who come from a rough home life and have a reputation for being loud, rough around the edges, and unpredictable. They don’t follow the rules at school. Kids are afraid to be around them. And when people see them coming, they tend to turn and walk the other way.

So when the Herdmans wander into church one Sunday and announce that they want to be in the annual Christmas pageant—and not just be in it, but take all the main roles—the congregation doesn’t quite know what to do.

They start to panic.

They worry the pageant will be ruined.

They worry it won’t be reverent enough, that something sacred will be turned into a mockery.

And if we’re honest with ourselves, we understand that reaction, don’t we? Because most of us carry clear expectations about how things should look and feel—especially around Christmas.

But then something unexpected happens.

For the first time in their lives, the Herdmans hear the Christmas story. They don’t just listen to it—they really hear it.

Not the cleaned-up, familiar version, but the real one. A story about a young mother and father far from home with no one to help them. A baby born in a stable because there was no room for them anywhere else. A family with nowhere to go. A powerful king threatened by a child.

And the Herdmans are stunned.

They can’t believe Mary and Joseph had no help.

They can’t believe Jesus was born among animals.

They can’t believe Herod wanted to kill the baby.

And they respond with this raw, honest emotion that catches everyone off guard. They feel the weight and danger of the story—the vulnerability of it. And as the church watches these children react, something begins to change.

The pageant becomes more than just a performance.

The story comes alive.

And Christmas becomes real again.

By the end of the movie, the very children everyone expected to ruin the Christmas pageant end up helping the whole congregation see Christmas again with fresh eyes.

Grace shows up where no one was looking.

God works through the people no one expected.

And sitting there watching the movie, I was moved to tears, because it was such a beautiful reminder that God often uses people we least expect to show us the truth of God’s love.

That’s what today’s Gospel lesson is all about—learning to look again at how God is working, even when it doesn’t fit our expectations.

John was someone who had very clear expectations about how God was supposed to work.

Just last week, we heard him preaching about fire and judgment—about axes at the root of the trees and a winnowing fork in hand—proclaiming a Messiah who would come in great power and set everything right.

And John didn’t just talk about that vision—he lived it. He spoke truth to power. He confronted injustice. He called people, even rulers and religious leaders, to repentance.

Eventually, that courage landed him in prison.

John was arrested because he confronted King Herod about his unlawful marriage to his brother’s wife. It was a prophetic word spoken to someone who didn’t want to hear it.

And like so many truth-tellers before him, John paid the price. He was bound, locked away, and silenced so he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

That’s where our story picks up today.

John is sitting in a prison cell, and he starts hearing reports about what Jesus has been up to.

Jesus is healing people.

He’s restoring lives and lifting up the poor and the oppressed.

He’s preaching mercy, not judgment.

And it doesn’t line up with what John expected.

So John sends his disciples to Jesus with a question:

“Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for another?”

In other words, “Jesus, you’re not what I expected. Are you really the Messiah?”

Jesus doesn’t scold John.

He doesn’t shame him for doubting or tell him to try harder or believe more.

Instead, Jesus tells John’s disciples to go back and report what they hear and see.

The blind receive their sight.
The lame walk.
The lepers are cleansed.
The deaf hear.
The dead are raised.
And the poor have good news brought to them.

And for those who knew the Scriptures—as John certainly did—those words would have sounded very familiar, echoing the promises of the prophet Isaiah about the day when God would come to heal the blind, restore the broken, and bring good news to the poor.

Jesus is saying to John, “Look again.”

Look again at what God is doing.
Look again at how the Kingdom is breaking in.
Look again—because God is at work, even if it doesn’t look the way you imagined.

Jesus isn’t telling John he was wrong to hope for something more. He’s helping him see the bigger picture. He’s helping him see that the Kingdom doesn’t come in the way he imagined—not through force or spectacle, but through healing, mercy, and a love that reaches people where they are.

He’s inviting John to open his eyes to the quiet ways the Kingdom of God is already breaking in.

“Look again,” Jesus says.

Not because John has failed, but because God is doing more than he imagined.

And Jesus invites us to do the same.

Because even though we don’t like to admit it, we’re often a lot like those people in the movie who doubted the Herdmans.

We’re quick to decide who belongs and who doesn’t. We assume we know who God can use and how God is supposed to show up.

But God has a way of surprising us, showing up through people and in places we never would have chosen.

So, Jesus tells us to look again.

Because if we don’t, we risk missing Christ altogether.

The season of Advent isn’t just about waiting for Jesus to come again and make all things new. It’s about learning to recognize Christ in the present.

And if we’re locked into narrow expectations—about who God can use and where God can work—we may walk right past Jesus without even knowing it.

We look again because Christ often comes quietly—because grace shows up in unexpected people.

We look again because God’s Kingdom breaks in at the margins—among the poor, the hurting, the overlooked, the ones who don’t fit in.

If Advent is about preparing for Christ to come again, then it’s also about preparing our eyes and our hearts to recognize him when he does.

If this season is about working toward the fulfillment of God’s Kingdom, then we have to learn to see the world as God sees it—to notice the broken corners of the world that are aching for healing and restoration.

So maybe this Advent, Jesus is saying to us what he said to John: “Look again.”

Look again at the people you’ve written off as unholy or undesirable or unredeemable.

Look again at the places you’ve given up on.

Look again at your own life and the quiet ways God may be at work.

Because when we look again—with openness and humility—we may discover that Christ has been with us all along—healing, restoring, and making all things new.

Amen.

I Am With You Always

A Message for the Angel of Hope Service of Remembrance
Tuesday, December 2, 2025

Good evening, friends.

It’s an honor and a privilege to be with you tonight.

My name is Father Eric Mancil, and I serve as the rector of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church here in Andalusia.

I want to begin by offering my heartfelt thanks to Debbie Grimes and to the other officers for the Angel of Hope for inviting me to be part of this service of remembrance.

The work you do—the compassion you offer, the space you provide for those who grieve—matters deeply to families throughout Covington County. Thank you for making this night possible.

We gather here at the Angel of Hope because this is a sacred place.

Each of us comes here tonight with a story.

Each of us carries a name, a face, a memory that has shaped our life more deeply than words can describe.

Tonight, we gather because we know that love never ends.

And because grief—especially the grief of losing a child—doesn’t follow a timeline or conform to what the world expects of us.

This time of the year makes that especially clear.

As December begins, the world around us tells us we should be cheerful all the time and full of holiday joy.

Everywhere we turn, there are Christmas lights, decorations, music, and messages insisting that this season is all about celebration.

And yet—for so many who carry deep grief—this is the season that hurts the most.

The empty chair at the table, the tradition that feels incomplete, the memory that arrives without warning… all of these can take what is supposed to be a joyful time and make it heavy or too painful to bear.

And so tonight matters.

Tonight gives us permission to be honest.

Permission to feel what we feel.

Permission to acknowledge that grief doesn’t take a holiday break.

Here, in this sacred place, no one has to pretend.

No one has to hide their feelings or their questions.

No one has to put on the holiday mask the world expects. 

Tonight we simply come as we are—carrying all the love, all the longing, all the pain, and all the gratitude that come with remembering a child who will always be part of us.

As a pastor—and as a parent myself—I’ve walked with many people who’ve carried deep grief of all kinds.

And while I’ve never walked through the loss that many of you carry, I do know what it means to love a child with your whole heart.

I know the way a child becomes part of you, the way their life shapes your own.

And because of that, I can only begin to imagine the deep pain that comes with losing a son or daughter.

What I do know is that grief is not a problem to solve or something we should be expected to just “get over.”

Grief is love—love that still aches, love that still reaches, love that still remembers.

Some days that grief feels like a fresh wound.

Other days, it rests quietly in the background until a smell, or a song, or a moment brings it rushing back.

But in every case, grief becomes a companion we never asked for—one that walks with us day after day.

So, please hear me tonight when I say that there’s no right or wrong way to grieve.

There is no timetable.

There is no moment when you are “supposed” to just all of a sudden feel better.

Your grief is real.

Your journey is your own.

And for those who’ve lost a child, their life will always matter.

This Angel of Hope stands here for that very reason.

Her open arms, her outstretched wings, her quiet presence: they remind us that none of us grieve alone.

All around the world, more than 150 of these angels stand in communities just like this one, bearing witness to the truth that a parent’s love does not end with death.

This angel is not a symbol of a simple or shallow hope.

She represents a deeper kind of hope—the kind that rises even in sorrow, that reminds us love is never lost, and that assures us God will never leave us to face our pain alone.

As people of faith, we hold to a promise that sustains us: the promise that God is with us, even in our deepest pain.

Jesus never said we would not face sorrow or heartbreak.

He never said that life would be free from suffering.

What he did say—what he promised—is that we would never face those moments alone. “I am with you always,” he said.

Not just in the easy days, not just in the joyful days, but in the darkest nights and the heaviest hours.

Jesus knew grief.

He wept at the tomb of his friend, Lazarus.

He felt the sting of loss.

And because he knows grief from the inside, we can trust that he walks with us through ours—not to take the pain away, but to carry it with us, to lift us up when we fall, and to remind us that love is stronger than death itself.

In a few moments, many of you will come forward to place a flower at the Angel of Hope.

It is a simple act, but it carries such deep meaning.

It is a way of saying, “My child lived. My child was loved. My child is still loved.”

And through that love, their light continues—shining in your memories, in your stories, in the ways they shaped who you are.

And the hope we proclaim tonight, the hope of the Gospel, adds this: your child is held in the eternal embrace of God in a place where there is no pain, no fear, no suffering, only peace and love beyond our understanding.

Until that day when all things are made new and we’re reunited with those we love, God gives us the strength to keep going.

One breath at a time. One step at a time. One act of courage at a time.

My prayer for you tonight is that you feel surrounded by God’s love, upheld by this community, and filled—if even only for a moment—with a sense of peace.

You’re not alone. Not tonight. Not ever.

May the God who knows your story, who holds your tears, and who loves you and your child more than you can imagine, grant you comfort, strength, and hope—hope deep enough to carry you through the days ahead, and love strong enough to remind you that nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Let us pray.

Holy and gracious God, tonight we lift before you the children we love and remember. We thank you for their lives, for the joy they brought us, for the ways they shaped our hearts and still shape them even now. Hold their families in your tender care. Surround them with your peace in moments of sorrow, your strength in moments of weakness, and your gentle presence when the weight of grief feels too heavy. Remind us that you are a God who walks with us—not to take away our pain, but to help us carry it, to lift us up when we fall, and to shine light into the darkness.

Bless each person gathered here tonight. Calm their anxious hearts, renew their courage, and fill them with a hope that lasts. And as we leave this place, help us to carry the love of our children with us—not as a burden, but as a sacred flame that continues to burn brightly. All this we pray in the name of the one who is our comfort and our hope, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Faith Without Fear

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

Text: Luke 20:27-38

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That kind of faith can make people live in fear.

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

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

Heaven was the goal, and fear was the motivator.

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

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

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

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

Love invites us to experience the mystery of God.

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

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

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

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

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

For them, this life was all there was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, Jesus refuses to play along.

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

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

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

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

But that’s not what he means at all.

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

It teaches us about commitment, sacrifice, and humility.

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

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

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

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

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

The Sadducees want control.


esus invites them to put their trust in God.

And that’s the real difference here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God wants to redeem us.

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

God isn’t keeping score.

God is faithful.

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

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

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

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

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

Free to stop living in fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith will always be a mystery.

And that’s okay.

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

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

Amen.

The Courage to Say Yes

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t get much better than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, suddenly, everything changed.

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

Hope and her mother went to the hospital.

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

It wasn’t an easy yes.

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

But, we all know that’s not true.

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

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

But that’s how love works sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so are we.

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

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

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

They’re ordinary people who said yes to love.

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

We celebrate that love in Ella Grace.

And we remember that this love is also our calling.

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

Amen.

Do Not Lose Heart

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

Text: Luke 18:1-8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hasn’t always been easy, though.

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

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

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

Finances were extremely tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has grown and flourished.

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

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

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

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

Attendance was down.

People were tired.

There were questions about the future.

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

Because they believed in this parish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We don’t know exactly why.

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

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

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

And yet this widow refuses to be silent.

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

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

Now…it’s easy to misunderstand this parable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God is faithful.

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

It changes ours.

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

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

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

That’s important for us to remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Churches go through seasons, just like people do.

There are times of abundance and times of uncertainty.

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

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

It’s faith.

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

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

Those who serve, even when they’re tired;

Those who give, even when times are tight;

Those who love, even when it’s hard.

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like showing up one more time to pray.

It looks like offering forgiveness one more time.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you’ve wondered if faith even matters anymore.

If that’s where you are, remember this—

God hasn’t forgotten you.

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

God is closer than your next breath.

So, keep praying.

Keep showing up.

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

Amen.

The Measure of a Life

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

Text: Luke 16:19-31

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve been thinking about it all week!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s love in action.

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

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

Jesus tells the story of two men.

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

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

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

Then death comes for both of them.

And suddenly, the great reversal happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s the danger Jesus is warning us about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think about the rich man’s gate.

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

But the rich man never saw him.

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

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

Maybe it’s a neighbor who’s lonely.

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

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

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

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

Because it was one way for us to practice giving.

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

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

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

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

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

I saw that last week at the Ministry Fair.

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

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

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

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

Friends, we only have this one life to live.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, come to the Table.

Come with open hands and open hearts.

Be fed.

Be filled with God’s grace.

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

Amen.

Let Mutual Love Continue

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

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

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

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

I’ll never forget his answer.

It wasn’t a long, theological explanation.

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

And he’s right.

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

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

Because these past couple of weeks have been tough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We don’t walk through them alone.

I’ll be honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for being present.

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

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

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

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

It’s short. Simple. Easy to remember.

But it’s also powerful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it begins right here in our lesson this morning:

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s exactly what Hebrews is pointing to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, it’s more than that.

It’s really about humility.

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

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

But Jesus flips the script.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Eucharist, we practice mutual love.

Christ is both the host and the guest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s what will carry us through.

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

Amen.

The Gift of Shared Ministry

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.

Sir, We Wish to See Jesus

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.

The Barns We Build

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.