prayer – The Rev. Eric Mancil

Come Home to God

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
February 18, 2026

Texts: Joel 2:1-2,12-17; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6; 16-21

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.

Today, we begin the season of Lent in the most honest way the Church knows how. Not with a checklist of things to do or a special program that will make us better Christians.

We begin by telling the truth.

We begin our journey through Lent with a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

We come to the altar with open hearts and hear words that have been passed down from generation to generation: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

That sentence can sound harsh if we hear it the wrong way.

It can almost sound like God is angry with us and standing over us with his arms crossed, reminding us of all the ways we’ve messed up.

But Ash Wednesday isn’t a time for shame or punishment.

It’s a time for compassion and mercy.

The ashes don’t tell us we’re worthless.

They tell us the truth of who we are.

We are fragile.

Our lives are short.

We can’t control or fix everything.

And we were never meant to carry the weight of the world alone.

The ashes are the Church’s way of saying, “Let’s take a look at where we are and be honest with ourselves.”

Let’s stop pretending everything’s okay.

And instead—just for a moment—let’s stand in the presence of God with nothing to prove.

That’s why Lent begins here—on Ash Wednesday.

Because if we don’t begin with truth, it’s easy for Lent to become just another self-improvement project—another season where we try harder to prove ourselves worthy of God’s love and end up either proud or disappointed.

But God isn’t asking for us to prove ourselves.

God is asking for our hearts.

In the readings appointed for this day, we hear the same message repeated again and again—come home to God.

The prophet Joel says it this way: “Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and merciful.”

Paul writes to the church in Corinth, “We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.”

And in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus warns us against turning faith into a performance and invites us to come home to God through prayer, fasting, and acts of generosity.

Not “get your act together.” Not “try harder.”

But come home to God.

Lent isn’t a competition or a test we’re trying to pass.

It’s a time for us to turn back.

And to do that—to come home to God—we have to be willing to take stock of our lives.

To tell the truth about where we are.

To be honest about the ways we’ve turned away from God.

Because the truth is, most of us are walking around with heaviness in our hearts and burdens we don’t want to carry.

Unhealthy habits that have changed us.

Old resentments we hold on to and refuse to let go.

Worries that keep us up at night.

Ways of coping with life that numb us instead of making us whole.

Patterns in our relationships that keep us from being fully present.

Lives that are so busy and full of noise and obligations that we’ve stopped making God a priority—and started squeezing God into whatever time is left.

That’s probably the one I struggle with the most.

Ash Wednesday invites us to wake up and pay attention.

Not because God wants to shame us but because God wants to set us free from what’s weighing us down.

Now, when a lot of us hear the word “Lent,” we immediately think: “What am I giving up this year?”

Maybe chocolate.

Or sweets.

Or soft drinks.

Or social media.

Or something else we enjoy.

And sometimes giving something up can be a helpful practice.

It can open our eyes and help us see those material comforts we’ve leaned on to try and fill the empty spaces in our hearts.

And giving up something for a while can also open up more time and space for prayer.

But, I want to offer you another way to think about Lent this year—because it might be what some of us need to hear the most.

I recently came across a story by an Anglican priest, and she wrote about a time in her life when she honestly didn’t know what to give up for Lent.

Life was hard.

She had just had her first child.

She was exhausted all the time. Her body was still recovering from pregnancy, and life was out of control.

She said it felt like her life already involved plenty of sacrifice—like she had already “given up enough.”

So she did what a lot of us do when we’re trying to be faithful and we’re not sure what to do next.

She went and talked to her priest.

And he listened.

And he said something that may surprise you.

“You don’t need to give anything up,” he said. “Your whole life is Lent right now.”

In other words—life is already asking a lot from you.

You’re already carrying enough.

You’re already learning self-denial in ways you didn’t choose.

And then, instead of giving her one more burden to carry, he gave her an invitation—to make space in her life to be restored and renewed by God.

To take up what he called a “practice of pleasure”—not to escape from life but as a holy discipline: intentionally receiving small, life-giving gifts with gratitude.

So that year, during Lent, she started walking to her favorite coffee shop once a week to sit down with a hot drink and a novel—something simple and quiet—to help her feel alive again.

When I read that story, it made me wonder if Lent isn’t just about, “What do I need to give up?”

Maybe it’s also about, “What do I need to receive?”

“What do I need in order to come home to God?”

Because here’s something we often forget: joy is not the opposite of repentance.

Repentance, at its heart, means turning—turning away from what holds us back toward the one who brings us life.

And sometimes the thing that holds us back isn’t chocolate or screen time.

Sometimes it’s the constant pressure of life.
The constant noise.
The constant self-doubt.
The constant feeling that we’re not enough.

Sometimes what we really need to turn away from is the lie that God only meets us when we’re successful or have everything together, when, in fact, God also meets us in stillness, in beauty, in times of rest and quiet, in moments of gratitude, and in the simple joy of being loved.

So today, I want to offer you an invitation—similar to the one I mentioned earlier.

What if this Lent, instead of focusing on “giving something up” you focused on making space for God?

Maybe it’s an hour a day.
Or maybe it’s thirty minutes.
Or maybe it’s an hour a few times a week.

What would that look like for you?

What would it look like to set aside time for God each week during Lent?

I’m not talking about giving God the leftovers. I’m talking about giving God the priority.

Maybe it’s sitting in a chair with no phone or any other distraction and simply praying, “Lord, have mercy.”

Maybe it’s a walk on the nature trail at LBW, paying attention to the beauty of God’s creation.

And who knows? You might even see your priest along the way.

Maybe it’s coming into church when it’s quiet and sitting in a pew all by yourself.

Maybe it’s reading a psalm or some other verse of Scripture—not to study it, but to listen for God’s voice.

Maybe it’s playing music, working with your hands, cooking a meal with gratitude, calling someone you love, or watching the sunset—anything that helps you find new life as God’s beloved.

And then let that space become a meeting place with God.

The season of Lent is all about restoring and renewing our relationship with God.

It’s about making room to be honest with God.

To listen.
To return.
To be healed.
And to be made new.

And yes—Lent is a time for us to take stock of our lives. It asks us to name what needs to change, to face what we’ve done and left undone.

But it also reminds us that God is compassionate and merciful, waiting for us to come back home.

When we come to the altar to receive ashes, we’re not coming to show how holy we are. We come forward as human beings—dust and breath—marked with the sign of the cross.

The ashes remind us that life is short.

But the cross reminds us that love is stronger than death and that we are God’s beloved.

So come as you are.

And as we begin this holy season, let us consider a Lent that’s more than just giving things up for the sake of suffering.

Instead, let us draw closer to God and be intentional about making room for God in our lives—no matter what that looks like—where God can meet us with mercy and compassion and the joy of being made new.

Amen.

Do Not Lose Heart

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

Text: Luke 18:1-8

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.

Lord, Teach Us To Pray

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

Text: Luke 11:1-13

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.