god – Page 2 – The Rev. Eric Mancil

Lord, Teach Us To Pray

A Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12C)
July 27, 2025

Text: Luke 11:1-13

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 I were to ask you, “Why do you pray?” what would your answer be?

You might say, “I pray because, without it, my day just doesn’t feel complete.”

For many of us, our daily prayer time is the only time when we can pause—when we can be still and quiet and simply rest in the presence of God.

Maybe for you, prayer is a source of comfort and peace. A moment of calm in the middle of life’s noise. A way of stepping outside the busyness to reconnect with something deeper, something more holy.

Or maybe you’d say, “I pray because that’s how I was raised.”

If you grew up in the church, you probably had at least one Sunday School teacher—or parent or godparent—who taught you the importance of prayer. You learned the words, you memorized the prayers, and you’ve held onto that practice ever since.

Or, maybe you’d say, “I pray because I need something from God.”

That’s probably the most common response.

How many of us have poured out our hearts to God in prayer—naming our hopes, our needs, our fears—desperately wanting God to intervene?

I know I have.

Maybe you’re in one of those seasons right now.

Maybe you’re praying for that new job or big promotion coming up at work.

Maybe you’re praying about a situation that feels completely out of your control.

Or maybe—and this is where many of us find ourselves—you’re praying for healing, for yourself, or for someone you love.

Whatever it is, we pray because something inside us longs to believe that someone is listening.

So, let me ask again.

Why do you pray?

Have you ever thought about it before?

If you’ve sat through any of my confirmation classes, you know we talk about this a lot. Prayer is one of the most essential parts of who we are as Christians.

We talk about what prayer is, why it matters, and the many ways we can practice it.

Contemplative silence. Spoken prayers. Reading the Daily Office out of the Prayer Book.

There’s no single “right” way to pray—and different forms work for different people.

But here’s what I think matters most: not just how we pray, but why we pray.

Because if we’re not careful, prayer can become just a means to an end.

A way to get something we think we need.

We treat it like a transaction—put in the right words, get the right result.

But that’s not what prayer is for.

Of course, God wants to hear our needs. There’s nothing wrong with asking God for help, for guidance, or for healing.

But at the end of the day, prayer isn’t about changing God’s mind.

Prayer is about drawing close to the heart of God—about letting God shape us.

The Catechism in the back of The Book of Common Prayer puts it beautifully:

“Prayer is responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.”

Prayer is more than just words.

It’s more than silence.

It’s a response. A posture. A way of living.

When we begin to see prayer this way, then every moment—every task, every breath—becomes an opportunity to respond to God’s presence and grace.

Yes, we still name our needs before God.

But we also give thanks.

We rejoice in God’s goodness.

We seek forgiveness.

We offer ourselves in God’s service.

We lift up others in love.

And in all of it, we say not “My will be done,” but “Thy will be done.”

Jesus understood this.

In fact, the Gospel of Luke shows us more than any other Gospel just how central prayer was to Jesus’ life.

In Luke 3, as Jesus is being baptized by John at the River Jordan, Jesus prays as the Spirit descends upon him—an early sign of his connection to God through prayer.

In Luke 6, Jesus spends an entire evening in prayer before he calls his disciples together and chooses twelve of them to become apostles.

In the ninth chapter of Luke, Jesus is alone in prayer just before he asks his disciples, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” And Peter responds, “You are the Messiah of God.”

And later, in that same chapter, in the story of the Transfiguration, Jesus goes with Peter, James, and John to the top of a mountain to pray, and as he’s praying, the glory of God is revealed to the three apostles.

Prayer is essential for Jesus.

It’s not something he does once and a while, when he has a few extra minutes to spare.

It is the foundation of his entire life and ministry.

Every action—every decision—is rooted in prayer and his connection with the Father.

And the disciples noticed.

Which is why, at the beginning of our Gospel lesson for today, as Jesus is once again off by himself praying, one of the disciples comes to him and says, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.”

Now remember, these were Jewish men, which means they grew up steeped in a long tradition of prayer and obedience to God.

They already knew how to pray.

They already knew the words and forms of prayer handed down to them from generation to generation.

But what they saw in Jesus was different.

They saw something real—something intimate.

What they wanted was to know how he prayed—how to have that same close, intimate relationship with the Father that he has.

So, Jesus said, “When you pray, say this…”

Father, hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come.
Give us each day our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins,
for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
And do not bring us to the time of trial.

Luke’s version of the Lord’s Prayer is short and simple—much simpler than the version we read in Matthew’s Gospel and the one we use in worship on Sunday morning.

But, in it, we come to discover the true meaning and purpose of prayer for Jesus.

It’s not about us—not really.

It’s all about God.

It’s about what God is doing in us and through us.

It’s about God providing us with the things we need to be faithful in our calling.

It’s about surrender and trust.

It’s about aligning our hearts with God’s Kingdom.

And then, in the second half of our Gospel lesson, after giving his disciples the words of prayer, Jesus offers this promise:

“Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”

And he doesn’t stop there.

He goes on to say that even flawed, human parents know how to give good gifts to their children. So, how much more will our loving God give the Holy Spirit to those who ask?

This is not a promise of instant results or a guarantee that things will always go our way.

This is an invitation to relationship.

A life of persistent, hopeful, faithful prayer.

Not because prayer changes God’s mind—but because it draws us closer to the heart of God.

When we ask, we open our hands to receive what God longs to give.

When we search, we draw closer to the one who is already seeking us.

When we knock, we trust that the door really will be opened.

So…

Why do you pray?

Maybe your answer today is different than it was before you came to church this morning.

Maybe prayer has felt more like a routine, or a last resort, or something you’re not even sure makes a difference.

And if that’s where you are, know that you’re not alone.

But, I hope you’ll remember this:

Prayer doesn’t have to be perfect.

It’s not a performance.

It’s not a test.

It’s not a ritual we do to prove our faithfulness.

It’s a relationship—a way of being with God that forms us, day by day, into the people God is calling us to be.

Jesus prayed constantly—not to change God’s mind, but because it kept him rooted in who he was.

And if Jesus needed that connection—that reminder, how much more do we?

So keep praying, friends.

Even when it feels dry or routine.

Even when you’re not sure what to say.

Even when you’re not sure God is listening.

Keep asking.

Keep seeking.

Keep knocking at the door.

And trust that the one who created you, who knows your heart, and who loves you more than you could ever imagine…will meet you there.

Amen.

The Kingdom Has Come Near

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not our calling.

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

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

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

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

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

Because something holy happens when we share a meal.

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

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

Now think about that.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t go with an agenda.”

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

“Just go and proclaim peace.”

“Go and receive the hospitality offered to you.”

“Eat what is placed before you.”

“Listen. Heal. Be present.”

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

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

“The Kingdom of God has come near.”

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

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

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

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

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

Offer peace. Receive welcome. Build relationships.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s how the Kingdom of God comes near.

That’s how lives are changed.

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

Through good food and honest conversation.

Through laughter and vulnerability.

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

So let’s be that kind of church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So go.

Be sent.

Not with fear, but with joy.

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

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

Amen.

The Sin of Certainty

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 18, 2025

Text: Acts 11:1-18

If you’ve been following the news closely over the past couple of weeks, you’ve probably heard by now that there’s a new Pope—Pope Leo XIV, who is the first American-born citizen to ever hold the position.

Now…what that means for us, as Episcopalians, is that there’s a new Bishop of Rome in the Roman Catholic Church.

Although we certainly look to the Pope as an influential figure and spiritual leader in the Body of Christ, he doesn’t hold any authority over what we do in the Episcopal Church or in the worldwide, Anglican Communion.

And, as Anglicans, we don’t have any equivalent to the Pope.

We have bishops, and we have an Archbishop of Canterbury—who serves as the head of the Church of England and the spiritual head of the Anglican Communion, but even he doesn’t have the same level of authority or influence as the Pope does in the Roman Catholic Church.

Still…any time a new Pope is elected, it seems as though the entire world is sitting on the edge of their seats, waiting anxiously to see the white smoke appear from the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

Watching all of the news about the election of the new Pope reminded me of a movie Chelsea and I recently watched called, Conclave.

Has anyone else seen it?

I’m sure a few of you have.

It’s a brand new movie that just came out last year, and it’s based on a novel that was written back in 2016 by Robert Harris.

The film was nominated for several awards, including eight Academy Awards, which it won for Best Adapted Screenplay.

If you haven’t seen it yet, don’t worry.

I’m not going to spoil it for you in case you decide to watch it later.

But, I highly recommend it.

The story of Conclave takes place in Rome.

After the Pope dies of a heart attack, the College of Cardinals gathers in the Vatican to elect his successor.

The main character of the film is Cardinal Lawrence—the dean of the College of Cardinals, played by Ralph Fiennes.

He’s the one who’s responsible for making sure the conclave runs smoothly.

Toward the beginning of the story, we learn that there are four cardinals who’ve emerged as the most likely candidates to become the new Pope.

And, as the story progresses, we see each of these characters positioning themselves politically and strategizing to make sure their top choice is the one who’s elected.

They all come into the conclave with their own, personal agendas, and they’ve already decided who they think should be the next Pope.

They all think they have the right answers on how the Church should be run.

Scandals are uncovered in the process.

Secrets are revealed.

And, ultimately—after an unexpected tragedy—the one who’s finally elected to be the new Pope is the one who was least likely to be chosen.

There’s one scene in the movie that especially resonated with me, and it happens toward the beginning of the film, soon after the conclave begins.

During the opening mass, Cardinal Lawrence delivers a powerful homily to the rest of the cardinals, stressing the importance of doubt and mystery in the life of faith.

At one point, he says to the cardinals, “There is one sin I have come to fear above all else. Certainty.”

And he goes on to say, “Our faith is a living thing precisely because it walks hand in hand with doubt.”

“If there was only certainty and no doubt, there would be no mystery and therefore no need for faith.”

The cardinal’s homily in the movie is very similar to something the late Pope Francis once said in an interview, not long after he was elected to the papacy in 2013…

“If one has the answers to all the questions—that is the proof that God is not with him. . . . The great leaders of the people of God, like Moses, have always left room for doubt. You must leave room for the Lord, not for our certainties; we must be humble.”

I think this is an important lesson for us to remember.

“We must be humble.”

We’ve all had experiences of people in our lives who claimed to have all the answers figured out.

We‘ve all known people who claimed to know the will of God and to think they know what’s best—not leaving room for anyone else’s opinions or beliefs.

We’ve all known people—and churches—who’ve taught that if you don’t believe the same way they do or belong to their church, you’re wrong.

I’m convinced it’s one of the reasons why so many people have been driven away from any kind of organized religion and why so many people feel isolated from the Church.

It’s because of the sin of certainty.

It’s because of our tendency—as human beings—to try and fit God into a box of our own design and not allowing any room for the Holy Spirit to move in our lives of faith.

In the words of Cardinal Lawrence, “Our faith is a living thing.”

And, it’s a lifelong journey—filled with pitfalls, valleys, and mountains—that God has called us to walk.

We are pilgrims—trying to find our way on this journey of faith, but in order to do so, we have to leave room for God to lead us.

We must decrease so that he may increase.

A really good example of that can be found in our lesson today from the Book of Acts.

Peter has just returned to Jerusalem after visiting Caesarea and a man named Cornelius, who was a Roman officer and Gentile.

When Peter returned to Jerusalem, he was met by a group of concerned Christians who were there, who were also Jewish.

They asked him, “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?”

In other words, “Why did you associate with the Gentiles?”

This was unheard of at the time.

Jews believed that, in order to stay pure, they could have no interaction with Gentiles.

So, Peter explained to them the situation…

He told them that, while he was away and praying in the city of Joppa, he had a vision sent from God.

Something like a large sheet came down from heaven, and it was filled with animals—four-footed animals, beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds of the air—all considered “unclean” according to Jewish law.

A voice from heaven told Peter, “Get up! Kill and eat!”

Peter replied, “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever touched my mouth.”

A second time, the voice from heaven said to Peter, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”

This happened three times.

Then, everything was pulled up again to heaven.

Peter was amazed by what he saw and wondered what it all meant.

Then, three men appeared who were sent by a man named Cornelius to bring Peter back to his home in Caesarea.

The Spirit told Peter to go with them.

So, he and some others from Joppa accompanied the men back to Caesarea.

When they arrived at the house, Peter told Cornelius and the other Gentiles who were there all about Jesus, and as he was speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all of them.

And, Peter remembered something Jesus once said…

“John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.”

Peter said to those concerned Christians in Jerusalem, “If God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?”

In other words, “If God gave those Gentiles the same gift he gave us, who was I to stand in God’s way?”

The people who heard this fell silent, and they began praising God, saying, “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life.”

This was a major turning point in the life of the early church.

Up to this point, most Christians believed that only Jews could follow Jesus.

But, because of the example of Peter and his willingness to go where the Spirit was leading him, he was able to break down those barriers and help people realize that Jesus wasn’t just for some people.

Jesus was sent to save us all.

From that point forward, the Gospel spread from a small group of Christians in Jerusalem to a worldwide faith—to people of all nations, cultures, and languages.

Our lesson this morning from Acts teaches us that God’s love is so much bigger than our traditions and pre-conceived ideas about who God is and who God calls us to love.

It teaches us that, when we’re willing to let go of certainty and the belief that we have all the answers figured out, God can use us as instruments of his love and mercy in the world.

There is a place for our questions and even our doubts, which can lead us to a deeper and more meaningful relationship with God.

There is a place for prayer and asking God to lead us and guide us, and to give us the strength we need to align our wills with his own.

Our job is not to stand in God’s way or to be a stumbling block to the Holy Spirit.

Our job is to follow where the Spirit is leading us, to let God use us as he will, and then have the grace and humility to get out of the way and let God be God.

Amen.

The Lord is My Shepherd

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year C)
May 11, 2025

Text: Psalm 23 and John 10:22-30

In my time as a priest, I’ve had to help plan a lot funerals. That may sound sad and depressing, but actually, it’s a great blessing for me to be able to share that special time with families who’ve just lost a loved one.

One of the first things I do when I meet with a family to plan a service of burial is ask them, “Which readings from Scripture would you like to include in the service?”

Thankfully, The Book of Common Prayer provides a list of appropriate readings to choose from, which makes the process a lot easier.

But, still, it can take some time, because most people want to choose what they feel is most appropriate for their loved one.

Nine times out of ten—when it comes to planning a funeral—there’s one lesson from Scripture that families always choose.

You can probably guess what it is.

It’s one of the lessons appointed for today.

And, that’s the Twenty-third Psalm.

It’s printed just about everywhere.

You can find it on bookmarks, coffee mugs, and just about any other gift you can imagine in a Christian bookstore.

You can find it on posters in just about any Sunday School classroom, usually with an image of Jesus gracefully walking through a pasture, carrying a sheep in his arms.

Even those who haven’t grown up in church are likely familiar with the opening words—probably from the King James Version of the Bible.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.”

They may not be able to recite the whole thing, but there are parts of this beloved text that even the most unchurched people are familiar with.

Phrases like, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

And “…thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

There’s a reason why families in mourning often choose Psalm 23 to be read at the funeral of their loved one.

And, there’s a reason why it’s become so engrained in popular culture that even those who don’t go to church or read the Bible are familiar with the words.

Because—in the simplest of terms—it speaks of who God is, and it speaks of the kind of love that God has for each of us.

A love that is personal and intimate.

A love that knows no bounds or limits.

When we hear those long-familiar words, “The Lord is my shepherd,” it brings us comfort and peace in a way that’s hard to describe—almost like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.

It reminds us that God is always with us—not only in the good times but also in those moments when it feels like we really are walking through the “valley of the shadow of death.”

The Twenty-third Psalm reassures us that—no matter where we go, no matter how far we fall away—God has taken us by the hand and will never leave us.

We are his forever.

There’s no doubt that Jews living in first-century Palestine would’ve been just as familiar with Psalm 23 as we are today.

The Psalms were part of the Hebrew Scriptures and were written centuries before the time of Jesus.

They were engrained in the hearts and minds of the people.

They were used in prayer and temple worship, similar to the way we use them in our own worship today.

Most Jews could recite Psalm 23 from memory in the same way that most of us can recite the Lord’s Prayer, which is probably one of the reasons why Jesus often used the images of sheep and shepherds in his teaching.

They were very familiar to the people.

In the tenth chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus describes himself as the “Good Shepherd” who lays down his life for the sheep.

Every year on this day, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, we hear a lesson from the Gospel of John having to do with Jesus as the Good Shepherd.

In today’s lesson, Jesus is walking in the temple in Jerusalem during the Festival of the Dedication, which we know now as Hanukkah.

Some of the other Jews who are there for the festival gather around Jesus and ask him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”

They want clarity from Jesus.

There’s no doubt they’ve heard of the miraculous things Jesus has done—like the Feeding of the Five Thousand or the healing of the man who was born blind.

And, there’s no doubt they’ve heard stories about his teachings and how he claims to be the Son of God.

But, he doesn’t fit their expectations of who the Messiah will be.

He’s not a military leader.

And, he doesn’t seek political power or wealth as an earthly king would.

He doesn’t quite fit the mold of what they expected in God’s Chosen One.

So, they want Jesus to tell them clearly whether or not he is the Messiah—the One whom God has sent to bring healing and restoration to the world.

Jesus looks at them and responds, “I have told you, and you do not believe.”

“The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep.”

In other words, Jesus says to them, “I’ve clearly shown you who I am, but because of your hardness of heart, you refuse to believe.”

There’s a saying we sometimes use.

Maybe you’ve heard it before or even used it yourself.

It goes like this:

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

And, a similar saying goes like this:

“Actions speak louder than words.”

Now, a lot of times, we use these sayings in a negative way about people who have lost our trust or people who have hurt us in some way.

But, I think these sayings are true all the way around—both the good and the bad.

People show us who they really are—they reveal their true identity—in the way they live their lives and in the way they treat other people.

The same is true for Jesus.

If we really want to know who Jesus is—and, if we really want to know who God is and how God is calling us to live our lives—all we have to do is pay close attention to his life and ministry.

All we have to do is look at the life Jesus lived—what he taught and stood for—and what he gave his life for, and we’ll know who he is.

He is the Good Shepherd—the one who loves us and cares for us more than we can imagine, the one who provides for us all the days of our lives, the one who leads us—through the good times and the bad.

He is the one who restores us when we fall down, the one who comforts us in times of pain and sorrow.

He is the one who heals us—our Great Physician and only source of true healing and peace in our lives.

He is the one who saves us and promises to be with us forever.

King David—a pillar of ancient Israel and author of many of the Psalms, including Psalm 23, described it best—

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Amen.

Feed My Sheep

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

Text: John 21:1-19

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.

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.

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?

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.

Via Dolorosa

A Homily for Good Friday
April 18, 2025

Text: John 18:1-19:42

I speak to you in the name of one God: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I want to share a story with you about a time when I was in my first year of ministry as a priest in northwest Texas. My family and I were living in Abilene at the time, where I served as curate at the Episcopal Church of the Heavenly Rest.

Not long after I began my ministry there, I was invited to attend a retreat for new clergy at a Catholic retreat center in San Angelo, which was about an hour and a half away from Abilene.

I was told that it would be a great way to meet other clergy from around the diocese and to learn some helpful things about how to get started in a new ministry.

The time came for the retreat.

So, I packed my bags and headed south for a few days.

It turned out to be exactly what I needed—a chance to get away for a while from the regular routine of parish ministry.

There was plenty of time for learning and asking questions.

But, more than that, it was an opportunity to simply rest in the presence of God without having to worry about any other responsibilities.

One day, during some free time, I decided to go for a walk outside and explore the surrounding area.

The campus was very beautiful and well-maintained.

It felt like an oasis of green in a part of the country that’s normally very dry and brown.

As I walked around for a bit, I eventually came to a long, winding pathway.

At first, I wasn’t sure where it would take me or how long it would take to walk the path.

But, I was curious to see where it led.

So, I decided to keep walking.

And, as I continued on, I quickly realized that the path was leading me toward a river that was close by.

I could hear the sound of the water getting louder as I continued to walk.

Then, I came upon something unexpected.

This wasn’t just a path to get down to the river.

This path was leading me to the Stations of the Cross.

The retreat center had their very own, outdoor Stations, depicting the final hours of Jesus’ life—similar to the fourteen stations we have hanging on the walls of our church.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Stations of the Cross, let me take a moment to explain.

The Stations of the Cross is an ancient, prayer practice which began centuries ago when pilgrims would travel to Jerusalem to walk the Via Dolorosa, “the way of sorrow”—the same path that Jesus walked on his way to Calvary.

Each of the fourteen stations represents a moment in Jesus’ suffering and death, and to this day, churches all over the world continue the practice of walking The Way of the Cross.

It’s especially meaningful during Lent and Holy Week.

Some churches have stations installed inside their buildings.

Some have outdoor stations.

But, the purpose is all the same—to walk with Jesus, to remember the sacrifice he made for all of us, and to remember that we, too, are called to take up our own cross and follow.

It’s a powerful and moving experience.

And, for those of you who are interested, tonight at 6:30, you’re welcome to come back to church and join us as we walk The Way of the Cross together.

I was surprised to discover the outdoor Stations on my retreat in Texas.

And, it wasn’t my intention to keep going and pray through each one.

But, since I had the time, I decided to keep going.

The only problem was that I somehow managed to find the end rather than the beginning.

I was at the fourteenth station—the one where Jesus is laid in the tomb.

So, I had a choice to make.

Do I try and find my way to the first station and start from the beginning?

Or, do I keep going in the direction I’m already headed?

I decided to be bold.

I kept going.

I walked from the fourteenth station to the thirteenth station—the one where Jesus is taken down from the cross.

Then, I walked from the thirteenth station to the twelfth—and so on.

I just kept walking and praying through each one of the stations—watching the events play out in reverse order.

As I moved further and further away from the twelfth station—the one where Jesus dies on the cross—a thought came to my mind that’s stayed with me ever since and led me to a deeper and more loving relationship with Jesus.

Jesus could’ve said “no.”

He could’ve easily walked away from all of it and spared himself the pain and humiliation he endured.

When faced with the agony in the Garden of Gethsemane—knowing that his time was soon coming to an end—Jesus could’ve handed that cup back to the Father and said, “This is too great of a burden for me to bear.”

When he was flogged and given a crown of thorns to wear by Roman soldiers, he could’ve said, “I’ve had enough,” and walked away.

When faced with Pilate’s interrogation—the one where Pilate questions him and tells him he has the power to release him or to crucify him, Jesus could’ve thrown his hands up and walked away.

Jesus could’ve walked away from all of it.

He was vulnerable to the same fear and pain and humiliation that all of us are.

And yet, he chose to keep walking.

He chose to endure all of it—for you and for me and for the whole world.

God didn’t force Jesus to go to the cross.

The choice was always his to make.

Jesus willingly sacrificed himself so that we might be reconciled with our Father in heaven.

He was obedient in his call to walk in love—even to the point of death.

He stretched out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross so that the whole world might be drawn in.

That’s the reason why we take special care to observe this day.

It isn’t to be overwhelmed with feelings of guilt or shame—even though we’re all guilty of turning our backs on Jesus.

No, the true purpose of this day is to remember—to remember the sacrifice Jesus made so that we might be reconciled with God.

And, to remember that we’re part of the story as well.

As followers of the one who emptied himself and laid down his life for others, we’re called take up our own cross and do the same.

Just as it was for Jesus, it’s our choice to make.

Do we walk away from the path we’re called to follow?

Or, do we say “yes” and keep walking—trusting that, even in times of uncertainty and doubt—our “yes” will lead us to experience new and abundant life with God?

I want to close with a prayer that comes from the liturgy we’ll use tonight as we walk The Way of the Cross together.

Let us pray:

Almighty and everliving God, in your tender love for the human race you sent your Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

Selfless Love

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

Text: Luke 13:31-35

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.

Christ Be With Me

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent (Year C)
March 9, 2025

Text: Luke 4:1-13

I spent the summer after my first year of seminary participating in a program called Clinical Pastoral Education, or CPE for short. Basically, it’s pastoral care boot camp for those who are training to be priests.

It’s where we go to learn how to be pastors and how to listen and care for people who may be going through difficult times in their lives.

Most of the time, it’s done in a hospital or some other kind of healthcare facility.

I was fortunate enough to do my chaplaincy work at a hospital right down the road from my seminary, not far from where my family and I were living at the time.

On my first day of CPE, I showed up to the hospital, eager and ready to learn all that I could.

There were actually two of us there from the same seminary.

We both walked into the chaplain’s office, and Pat, the director of pastoral care, began explaining some of the things we were going to be doing over the next few months and orienting us to the hospital.

As she was talking, the phone rang.

She picked it up and started talking to the person on the other end of the line.

My friends and I just sat there and waited until she was done with the phone call.

When she was done, she hung up the phone, looked at both of us and said, “Follow me.”

As we were walking, she told us we were headed to the emergency room, but she didn’t tell us anything else.

When we got there, we heard loud cries coming from one of the rooms, and when I say “room,” what I really mean is a small area separated by a curtain.

We walked over to where the cries were coming from.

They were coming from a woman who had just unexpectedly lost her husband due to a heart attack.

Pat told us to wait outside of the room and listen to what was going on.

She drew back the curtain and walked in and immediately started caring for the grieving wife.

The woman was hysterical.

She was crying and kept saying over and over again, “He wasn’t supposed to die today. He wasn’t supposed to die today.”

Pat wrapped her arms around the woman and began to comfort her, and I’ll never forget the words she said to the wife.

Softly, she said to her, “Just imagine it’s Jesus holding you.”

It was a sacred moment, and even though my friend and I were standing on the other side of the curtain, we knew that God was there.

After some time passed, Pat came out of the room, and we walked back to the chaplain’s office, where we had a conversation about what happened.

She told us that things happen like that from time to time, and when they do, it’s our job to show up and do the best we can to offer care and support.

Well, needless to say, I walked away from my first day of CPE less excited than I was when I got there.

Because, to be very honest, I didn’t think there was any way I could do what Pat did that day.

I walked away from my first day of CPE thinking, “There’s no way I can do this.”

“I don’t have what it takes.”

“I’m in way over my head, so I might as well give up now.”

But, what I eventually came to realize is that I was there for a purpose.

I was called by God to go to seminary and be formed as a priest, and part of that call meant going through hospital chaplaincy and learning how to be a pastor.

I wasn’t always going to get it right.

But, I had to trust that, if God was calling me to be a priest and pastor, then God would be with me through it all, including the hard parts.

What I also came to realize is that those thoughts of self-doubt were not from God.

They were from the tempter—the one who uses subtle lies and deception to make us doubt ourselves and think we aren’t good enough or capable enough to do what God has called us to do.

For me, hospital chaplaincy was definitely a time in the wilderness with God.

Most of the time, I really had no idea what I was doing, but I could trust that God was with me through it all, leading me and guiding me and giving me the strength that I needed.

When God calls us to do something, he doesn’t leave us to do it alone.

God empowers us and gives us strength and wisdom by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Eventually, over time, I gained confidence in my ability as a chaplain and pastor, and every time I got anxious or nervous about a situation, I had a prayer that I would pray as I walked to a patient’s room.

I kept it in a little green book of prayers that was given to me on my very first day of CPE, and It goes like this:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Anytime I needed to be reminded of the fact that God was with me wherever I went, I would always return to that prayer.

And, even now, to this day, I return to it from time to time, and I’m reminded that God is always with me, even in those moments when it feels like I’m walking through the wilderness, unsure of where I’m going or what I’m being called to do.

Because, that’s the thing about walking through the wilderness as a follower of Jesus.

Often, we really have no idea where we’re being called to go.

But, we can trust that if we put our faith in God, we can face any challenge that may come our way.

We can trust that God will always be with us.

The reason why I wanted to share this story with you today is because it’s easy to think that the only temptations we face in our lives are external.

In other words—those things we do or say to make ourselves feel better or to satisfy some hunger we have or to fill that God-shaped hole in our hearts.

And, it’s true that sometimes they are.

Sometimes, we indulge in material things that make us feel better, at least for a short time.

But, often they’re things that cause us to turn away from God or things that prevent us from living more fully into who God created us to be.

Sometimes, we turn to things like alcohol to dull the emotional pain we’re feeling over a loss or heartbreak or to make life a little more bearable when times are hard.

Sometimes, we lie, cheat, or steal in order to get what we want.

Sometimes, we turn to gossip or talk about other people behind their backs because it makes us feel better about ourselves.

There are lots of ways we’re tempted by external things.

But, I’m convinced that perhaps something even more destructive are those internal temptations we face—those subtle whispers or thoughts that the tempter uses to make us feel like we’re worthless.

The subtle whispers that cause us to wonder whether or not we’re worthy of God‘s love or whether or not we’re good enough or capable enough.

The tempter—whether you call him Satan or the devil or any other name—will use deception and subtle lies to make us believe these things are true.

But, I’m here to tell you today, friends, that all of these things our lies.

You are the Lord’s possession.

God has called you by name for a purpose, and he will never leave you.

God will send his Holy Spirit upon you to lead you and guide you in your life and to give you the strength and will to persevere in your walk with Christ.

That doesn’t mean it’ll always be easy.

There will be temptations along the way, but with Christ, we know that we have an advocate and guide—someone who will take us by the hand and never let go.

In our Gospel lesson for this morning from Luke, we hear the story of our Lord’s journey through the wilderness, where he was led by the Spirit and tempted by the devil for forty days.

There’s a reason why this story comes right after the story of Jesus‘s baptism.

And, I think this has a lot to do with us as well in our own lives in Christ.

To be baptized means to be set apart for a special purpose.

It means renouncing the ways of the world—the ways of sin and death—and giving our lives over to Christ and serving only him.

When we do that, we will be tested.

Our lives will be tested.

Our faith will be tested.

Our trust in God will be tested.

That doesn’t mean that God is the one testing us or waiting for us to fail in some way.

It means that every day when we wake up, we have to make the choice of whether to follow Christ or follow our own selfish ways.

We have to make the choice of whether to serve others or serve ourselves.

We have to make the choice of whether to put our trust in the Lord or to put our trust in material things.

These are the temptations we face in our lives every day.

Some are external. Some are internal.

But, they all threaten to make us lose sight of who we are as God’s beloved.

Just as Jesus was tested in the wilderness, we also will be tested.

And, just like Jesus, we can make the choice to put our trust in God and to always remember that God will be with us no matter where we go or what we do.

If you ever need to be reminded of that, I know a great prayer you can use:

Amen.

Sometimes, We Kneel

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
March 5, 2025

Text: Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

There are so many things I love about being a priest. I love getting to walk alongside people in their journeys with Christ, to see them grow in their faith, and to remind them that God loves them more than they can possibly imagine.

I love getting to celebrate the sacraments and to share them with God’s people, those outward and visible signs of God’s inward and spiritual grace, like Baptism and Eucharist.

They remind us that God is always at work in our lives, leading us and guiding us with his Spirit and giving us the strength we need to continue our walk with Christ.

I love getting to pronounce God’s blessing over God’s people and to assure penitent sinners that they are indeed forgiven by a merciful Lord who wants nothing more than for all of us to be in right relationship with him.

But, if I’m being completely honest—and Ash Wednesday seems like a good day to do that—there are some things I miss about being a layperson.

One of the things I miss most is being able to simply sit in the presence of God in worship and not have to focus on anything but participating in the service.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

It’s an incredible blessing and privilege to be called by God to lead worship, and I try my best never to take that for granted.

Because it really is a wonderful gift to be able to serve as a priest in God’s church.

But, sometimes…I really do miss being able to just soak it all in, without any responsibility of leadership or making sure the service runs smoothly.

Sometimes, I miss the rhythm of sitting in a pew, holding my Prayer Book and hymnal, and waiting for someone else to direct the congregation on what to do next.

Sometimes, I miss being able to walk up to the altar rail during Communion and kneel alongside everyone else, waiting expectantly to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

To me, there’s something special about being able to just worship—to simply sit in God’s presence without any other responsibilities or thoughts running through my mind.

It’s hard to explain, but I think it has something to do with getting back in touch with who I really am at the center of my being.

On those rare occasions when I do get the chance to just sit in a pew and participate in the service, I’m reminded of the fact that, first and foremost, I am a child of God—just like everybody else.

And, just like everybody else, I’m in desperate need of a Savior.

That’s the power and beauty of our worship.

It humbles us and reminds of who we are and who we were created to be as God’s beloved.

In our liturgy, in our prayers and every time we confess our sins to God, we’re reminded that, without him, we are helpless.

We feel it in our bodies every time we stand to sing God’s praises and every time we sit to hear the Word of God proclaimed in Holy Scripture.

And we feel it, especially, when we kneel.

Sometimes, we kneel to pray and confess our sins because it’s the only posture that seems appropriate.

Sometimes, we kneel, not because we’re afraid of God, but to show our love for God and express our gratitude for all the many blessings we’ve been given.

Sometimes, we kneel to receive the Body and Blood of Christ and to recommit our lives to serving only him.

And sometimes, we kneel to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads, not because we’re worthless, but because we realize that, sometimes, we need to be reminded of our own mortality and need for repentance.

Sometimes, we need to be reminded, once again, that our lives belong to God and that we need to make amends, for things done and left undone.

That’s why we’re gathered here today as we mark the beginning of our journey through Lent.

It isn’t to beat ourselves up or to dwell on past mistakes.

It’s to be reminded of who we are and to be reconciled with God, to confess our sins and acknowledge that our only help is in the Lord our maker.

The prophet Joel put it this way in his call for repentance to the people of Israel:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

It was a practice in ancient Israel for people to mourn their sins and express their grief through outward signs like wearing ashes on their heads, wearing sackcloth, and tearing their clothes.

But, to me, what Joel is really saying in this passage is that God doesn’t care so much about outward signs if they’re not also expressing a deep, inward desire to change one’s life.

So, on this day, we come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

Not just for the sake of doing it.

And not because it’s something we’re obligated to do once a year.

We do it because we know we’ve fallen short of our call to walk in love as Christ has taught us.

We do it because, deep down, we long to be reconciled with our Father in heaven.

We receive the ashes on our foreheads because we know that God is our God, and we are his forever.

From the dust of the earth we were created, and to dust we shall return.

On this Ash Wednesday, be comforted in knowing that God loves you and cares about you in more ways than you can imagine.

But, also know that God cares deeply about the way you live your life and wants nothing more than for you to draw closer to him.

Listen once again to the prophet Joel and his call for repentance:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

Amen.

Called by God

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

Text: Luke 5:1-11

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.

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.

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.