On Change and Bread…

16 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Photo credit: https://foragersofhappiness.com/beginner-sourdough-bread-recipe/

On Sundays at church, we’ve been reading our way through Genesis and Exodus.  Last week we just read about the parting of the Red Sea.  This coming week, we find the freed people of Israel complaining about hunger.  In Exodus 16.3, the people of God complain, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” 

These faithful people went through a brutal, oppressive enslavement and witnessed a miraculous freeing by God – walking through a parted sea while their enemies were crushed.  They have everything they ever wanted – true freedom.  And yet, here they are, at the first sign of adversity, looking longingly back at slavery, because at least there, you were fed. 

I love that one of the powerhouses of the Old Testament, Moses, was the first to experience change management.  Moses was the first in what would become millennia of rabbis, pastors, and faith leaders who will hear, “I wish things were like they used to be!”  All those leaders have come to know that the hardest part about change is experiencing the discomfort of the new, next thing.  Any trace of difficulty or adjustment immediately sends people into romanticizing the way things used to be – remembering only the good of the past, and not all the equally bad or much worse parts of the past. 

As I think about the ungrateful and unbalanced perspective of the people of God, I wonder what things we are romanticizing in our lives.  What change are we bemoaning without appreciating all the ill we left behind – and some of the really great things in this new reality?  The good news is that we have a responsive God.  Despite the Israelites’ moaning, God provides them food that they need – even if that food came in a different form.  Our promise is the same.  God expects us to be in relationship so that God can be responsive.  Our work is to be open to the manna that might not look like sourdough loafs we love, but that feeds us in new ways.

Sermon – Exodus 14.19-31, P19, YA, September 13, 2026

16 Wednesday Sep 2026

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The scripture reading we heard from Exodus is a core identity story in Christianity – the parting of the Red Sea and the salvation of the people of God.  When God is referenced throughout scripture after this event, God is often described as the God who brought us out of the land of Egypt, across the dry land.  This is a pivotal moment that defines the kind of God that God is:  one who will not forever endure the oppression and suffering of God’s people; the God who will offer the oppressor multiple warnings and opportunities for repentance – nine plagues before offering the worst of the plagues at the Passover – when the first born of the Egyptians are all killed; a God who, when the oppressor keeps oppressing, raging after a people escaping through the dessert in nothing but sandals and their meager possessions, coming with the full force of strong horses and powerful chariots, a God who liberates God’s people and decimates the oppressor.  This passage is one of two mandatory readings from the possible list of nine readings at the Easter Vigil – a service whose entire purpose is to articulate the salvation narrative – the salvific work of God and our commission to witness to that God through our love of God and neighbor.  And, at its very root, this is a story that fascinates our children as many of them wonder what the walls of a parted sea look like – whether you could see fish or not. 

The primacy of this story, and the way the story of Moses parting the Sea of Reeds is so central to our understanding of God, often makes hearing this story with fresh ears difficult.  All we need to hear is “…Moses stretched out his hand…” and our eyes glaze over as the victorious image of salvation soothes our anxieties and makes us feel safe, protected, and at peace.  At least that is usually my experience of this narrative.  But this week, in the wake of the 25th anniversary of the tragedy of September 11th, my eyes gravitated to a part I had glossed over so many times before today.  The penultimate verse from today’s reading says, “Thus the Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore.”  I am usually captivated by the images of the rushing army, the blinding cloud, the scurrying across dry land in the middle of a sea, and the panic of horses and chariot drivers who express fear and regret before the seas return over their heads.  But this week, all I can imagine is the panting people of Israel, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, fear of death slowly subsiding as they look at the dead bodies of Egyptians on the seashore – the same Egyptians who spent their lifetimes oppressing the people of God and who now have no life left. 

This week I took on the discipline of listening to stories from StoryCorps about September 11th.  StoryCorps was a project founded in 2003 that has since recorded hundreds of thousands of conversations, usually between two people, meant to document everyday American life.  Those stories are collected at the U.S. Library of Congress, but countless stories are available online and air weekly on public radio.  The story that caught my attention this week was of a woman who escaped the devastation of the Twin Towers, arriving at home that night with debris still in her pockets, who just days later, and for years thereafter did her job of helping identify the remains of those who died in the devastation.   When speaking to her daughter, she described the overwhelming experience of identifying the bodies of the terrorists who instigated the horror of that day and her life for so many years.  As families insisted terrorist bodies be separated from the bodies of the victims, she just stared paralyzed – not knowing what to feel about the remains of those terrorists.  In full confession she simply asked, “What do I do?  Am I mad at it?  Do I stomp on it?  What do I do with it?”[i] 

In the last twenty-five years, both in the days after that fateful day, but in the myriad experiences of the twenty-five years that originated from that day, my one conclusion about that eventful day is that the experience was complicated.  So many questions, so much anger, so much pain, so much loss, so many beautiful moments of grace and reconciliation, so much violence, so much trauma, and so many varied testimonies make telling that one story in our history complicated. 

For the longest time, complicated was not a word I would use for the story of Moses parting the Red Sea and God liberating God’s people from oppression.  But as I think about the trauma of slavery by pharaoh, the horror of plagues, the fear in escape, the noise of chasing chariots, the wonder of a parted sea, the relief of eliminated enemies, and the sight of those dead enemies on the seashore, complicated seems like the only word for this seemingly innocent tale of liberation. 

So, what do we do with the realization that one of our core narratives is so very complicated?  Scholar Cameron Howard argues, “…God’s love may be universal, but [God’s love] is not neutral.  God is never a neutral observer in any biblical account; God always takes sides.  In the exodus story, God chooses to liberate the Israelites from Egyptian bondage.  God has no patience for Pharaoh’s delusions of godly grandeur, nor for his vicious grasping at power and glory.  Similarly, Jesus’s death on the cross is no affirmation of the Roman Empire, but rather an indictment of its cruelty.  Jesus’s resurrection may not overthrow the Roman Empire, but [his resurrection] certainly exposes [the Empire’s] ultimate impotence and the farce of [the Roman Empire’s] claims to absolute dominance.  Throughout Scripture, from Exodus to the Gospels and everything between and beyond, God sides with life over death and humility over power.”[ii]

Verse 31 of Exodus chapter 14, the last verse in our text, says, “Israel saw the great work that the Lord did against the Egyptians.  So the people feared the Lord and believed in the Lord…”  Now, we always have to remember that the word “fear” in Hebrew means a deep, reverent awe or profound respect for God.  The people are not scared of God.  They just have profound respect for the God who sides with life over death, and humility over power.  Our work is to make sure we are aligning ourselves with the work of life, not death – the work of humility and not power.  That we are aligning ourselves with the people of God and not the people of oppression and overpowering. 

The story of the liberation of the people of God may, in fact, be quite complicated.  But in other ways, the story is also quite simple.  Being followers of God means being people of light, love, and life.  Despite the horrors of September 11th, there are also beautiful stories – of those who helped others, those who narrowly missed disaster, those who gathered in prayer and healing.  Those stories are instances of people choosing good, choosing light, choosing life.  That is our invitation every Sunday too.  We are a people invited every day to be agents of good, of light, and of life.  The opportunities for life and humility will vary as widely as each of our lives and vocations are – just as the opportunities will arise for death and power.  Our invitation is to hold on to the good, and to let our lives be a witness to the God whom we hold in deep, reverent awe and profound respect.  Go and be light – God will light the way if you but follow.  Amen.

[i] “She Barely Survived 9/11 – Then She Had To Identify Those Who Hadn’t,” as told by Kurt Mundorff, Amy Mundorff, and Sarah Mundorff, aired on September 11, 2026, found at https://storycorps.org/stories/she-barely-survived-9-11/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=sotw&utm_content=Kurt_Amy_Sarah%20Mundorff&fbclid=IwY2xjawUSbKBwZG9mBWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAGJyaWQRMWxjS2pkckJJc2VRM1NUQ0hzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEekUlXJp38c72Vk3VzQy_SpX0uhV9BW9qY9B_GzGQrlSQ7-M6U6ii6Q7IwFC8_aem_Gczt_0peUQwBS8rr4ekf7w on September 11, 2026.

[ii] Cameron B.R. Howard, “Commentary on Exodus 14:19-31” September 13, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-24/commentary-on-exodus-1419-31-7 on September 11, 2026. 

On Realizing Dreams…

09 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Photo credit: https://blog.gophersport.com/non-competitive-school-community-field-day/

This Sunday our church will host its annual “Rally Sunday,” the day to celebrate the kickoff of the program year and all the ministry we enjoy.  Usually that means registration for things like Sunday School, a fun ice cream social, and seeing some faces that may have missed as they enjoyed travels, took a break from “school year activities,” and generally used the summer for a bit of rest and renewal.  This year, our Rally Sunday has two unusual features:  the celebration of the 20th birthday of our “New Chapel,” and the addition of our inaugural “Field Day.”

These two additions have been bringing me great joy as I anticipate our Rally Sunday.  The celebration of our New Chapel’s birthday has been a lovely exercise in reminiscing, reconnecting with parishioners who were a part of the construction process, but maybe have relocated in the last twenty years, and learning more about our history.  The preparation has meant seeing a painting I didn’t know existed of the groundbreaking for the New Chapel, reading news articles about the process of construction, and hearing stories from longtime members about the excitement of adding more space and conveniences than our almost 300-year-old tiny “Historic Chapel” ever has allowed.  The generation that built the New Chapel was able to envision a future yet to be realized.

The addition of the Field Day has me excited about what new future is being realized.  Though the increase in families with young children has been a gift to us in the last 5-6 years, what I have loved watching is the families creating a community within the community.  They have found their own way of group conversation – not organized by a coordinator but organically organized by taking the reins and making the community their own.  They share resources, plan outings, organize events like a community yard sale, and most recently, conceive of a field day for our parishioners to connect across generations.  This will mean that elders will run stations like three-legged races or bean bag tosses.  This will mean parents will get to watch their children play, entrusting the community to shepherd and delight in their children.  This will mean children will get to know adults other than their parents in a playful way.  In one afternoon, our community is manifesting and living into the vision that countless Vestries have articulated over the years.

All that is to say, Church can be a place where sacred community is cultivated, where connection and belonging is extended, and where joy and celebration is rooted in a place that reminds of the origin of all love and grace: Jesus Christ.  Like any institution made of humans, all churches have their flaws.  And, I love watching when churches live into their best selves.  If you’ve been searching for a sense of community, a sense of belonging and purpose, or a place to refresh your aching heart, you are certainly welcome at our church.  If you’re reading from afar, I invite you to consider finding a local church where you can find a similar meaningful community.  You are welcome here!

On Seeing the Kingdom…

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Photo cred: Stephanie Snow, as found at https://stephaniesnowphotography.com/7-poses-for-beach-pictures-for-your-family/

Every summer, our family travels to the beach.  But unlike traditional beach stays, we stay at a community house run through the Episcopal Church.  The house has 11 family rooms, shared living spaces, and two shared meals a day.  The house is only a few blocks from the beach and a couple more blocks to the boardwalk.  Staying in a community house certainly involves some uncertainty – you have no idea who will occupy the other 10 rooms:  singletons, couples, families with either young or older children, rooms occupied by friends of another room’s occupants, or grandparents, uncles or aunts, or cousins of other housemates.  Invariably, communal meals and living spaces are shared across generations, often with people who were strangers at the beginning of the week, but friends by the end.

This year, I was struck by the magic of the multigenerational nature of the house.  I watched as my preteen joined in games with older adults.  I watched as an elementary school-aged child reveled in the design of a birthday cake of someone in her late 60s.  I watched my high schooler talk about the local amusement park with one of the younger residents.  And probably most beautiful, I watched as each morning and evening, hands joined together across family and generational lines, to offer up prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude before meals.

Our experience at the beach reminds me so much of the same beauty I find at Church.  I love watching grandparent-aged folks marveling at the princess dresses of our young ones.  I love watching parents of young children kneel next to adults old enough to be their parents – and watching them exchange looks of awe as a young kid asks for a blessing.  I love watching hugs exchanged across generations, older members asking students about their studies and extracurricular activities, and parents welcome in a harried newcomer parent whose victory that day was just getting the whole family through the church doors. 

When folks are looking for a sense of community or even more specifically for a worshipping community, all sorts of factors come into play:  the music selections, the liturgy choices, the sermon style, or even the dress code.  But probably more important than those surface differences is the way a church makes you feel:  a sense of belonging, of affirmation, of spiritual guidance, of connection – to God and to others.  In “church speak,” you’re looking for the kingdom of God here on earth.  No church is perfect – because every church is made up of imperfect persons.  But when the Church is fully being its beautiful self, there’s a magic you cannot find elsewhere.  Come see for yourself, and fold yourself into the beauty of community!

Sermon – Exodus 3.1-15, P17, YA, August 30, 2026

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Many years ago, I was watching an episode of a popular TV show.  The main character had arrived at a friend’s house and was asked to take off her shoes before proceeding into the house.  Now, the character was kind of a shoe diva, so she presented as being upset because 1) the shoes were a strategic part of her outfit – her outfit just didn’t look the same without the shoes; plus, 2) they were pretty expensive shoes, so the idea of leaving them behind felt akin to leaving your wallet in a vulnerable place.  The homeowners had zero sympathy, so the audience was left feeling the same upsettedness as the character removed her precious shoes and left them among the shoes of the other guests.

In hindsight, while the character was legitimately concerned about the safety of her expensive shoes and even the negative impact on her cute outfit, what the show never really addressed was what removing shoes does at a deeper level.  Removing shoes, particularly in the presence of others, makes you vulnerable.  You cannot hide the fact that you put on your socks with the holes you haven’t mended, or the pedicure you’ve failed to tend for over a month, or the ways your feet become sweaty on a hot day, or the myriad ways you don’t see your feet as “pretty” or at least “presentable.”  Removing shoes takes away any status markers and leaves you on uncomfortable footing with others. 

When we hear the story of burning bush today, Moses is asked to do exactly what that TV character was asked to do – remove his shoes.  God says to Moses, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”  Now, I have always heard that part of the passage and narrowed in on the holy ground – wondering what makes certain ground holy, where I find holy ground in my life, or whether holy ground is even a modern-day occurrence.  But this week, I have been more focused on the removal of sandals. 

In many Asian countries, removing shoes indoors is common practice.  My nephews, who were born and live in China, automatically remove their shoes when they come in your home.  In Burma, you find piles of flip flops outside of classrooms and homes.  In Japan, you remove shoes and are immediately given slippers – and sometimes a different set of slippers for different parts of the house, like the bathroom.  In a survey taken in Japan, “…81 percent of the people identified not one, but two equally important reasons for taking their shoes off when they enter their homes: 1) to keep their houses and floors clean; and 2) to be able to relax and be themselves.”[i]

Here is where I think the text is really pointing when we talk about Moses taking off his shoes.  As one scholar asks, “Is it possible that God tells Moses to take his shoes off because he wants Moses to be himself?  To remove all pretense?  To be vulnerable and open to what God has to say?”[ii] 

If we keep reading, our text talks a lot about identity.  When God calls out to Moses (before Moses removes his shoes), Moses says, “Here I am!”  But then just verses later, Moses says, “Who am I?”  As in, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”  And even later, when Moses is commanded to go to the people and report that God sent him, he asks who God is – what God’s name is.  In this jockeying back and forth between Moses and God about identity and purpose, commissioning and authority, at the heart is conversation that can only happen if God and Moses enter the conversation with full vulnerability, honesty, and humility.  Perhaps there is nothing at all sacred about the ground beneath that burning bush on a molecular level[iii] – the ground becomes sacred when shoes are removed. 

I’ve been spending a lot of time this week watching old clips of Dolly Parton, Patron Saint of the Smokey Mountains.  Now shoes were important to Dolly – along with sequins, and hairspray, and makeup, and supportive undergarments.  But in a metaphorical way, I think Dolly taught us a lot about how to take off your shoes and make holy ground wherever you are.  Dolly never hesitated to talk about her impoverished upbringing, how her looks both opened doors and created liability, or how every bit of success and financial windfall was a gift from God.  By taking off her shoes so readily and regularly, Dolly taught us what happens on sacred ground.  On sacred ground, the marginalized are noticed and honored, children of any background are given an education, jobs are created in depressed areas, LGBTQ+ community members are made to feel blessed and valued, women are empowered, and conflict is accompanied by lightness and laughter.  But that kind of sacred ground could never have emerged unless Dolly took off her shoes over and over again.

Our scripture today asks us to do the same:  to take off our shoes so that we can see holy ground.  That holy ground is obvious to us in some places – at the communion rail, in our favorite pew/seat, or in our favorite prayer spot.  But this week, Moses invites us to take off our shoes so that we can see holy ground in more unexpected places – in our workplace, at school, in our homes.  Now, there may be some places that removing your shoes is impractical – while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store, on the playground at play, or in your favorite restaurant.  But I want you to at least imagine taking your shoes off in all the places you find yourself this week and see how your perspective changes.  Maybe with your shoes off, the guy talking too loudly on his cell phone seems more sympathetic as you look at the dark circles under his eyes.  Maybe with your shoes off, that silent orderly who cleans up the neighboring hospital room seems like more of a crucial part of the hospital than the doctors and nurses.  Maybe with your shoes off, that clerk at the grocery store who barely makes eye contact seems much more interesting as you ponder how she makes a living serving you.  And when you lay your head down to sleep each night this week, I invite you to thank God for the holy ground in your life and the opportunity to remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.  Amen.

[i] Karla Suomala, “Commentary on Exodus 3:1-15,” September 3, 2017, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-22/commentary-on-exodus-31-15-4 on August 28, 2026.

[ii] Suomala.

[iii] This train of thought inspired by reflections by Anathea Portier-Young, “Commentary on Exodus 3:1-15,” August 31, 2014, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-22/commentary-on-exodus-31-15-5 on August 28, 2026.

Sermon – Genesis 37.1-4, 12-28, P14, YA, August 9, 2026

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Family Systems studies is one of the most important areas of study for a pastor.  Understanding the interconnected emotional network of a congregation helps the community navigate group behavior, anxiety, and change management.  You can study as much scripture, homiletics, theology, ethics, and liturgy as you want, but all you need is one funeral or wedding to watch everything unravel in the face of generations-learned dysfunction and conflict.  To every single person who has ever whispered to me a confession that their family might be a little bit dysfunctional, I make my work to disabuse them of the idea that any family functions perfectly healthily all the time – even the pastor or the therapist’s family – probably especially the pastor and therapist’s families. 

Last week we talked about the not-so-functional family of Isaac and his scheming son Jacob, who wrestled with God after a lifetime of manipulation and grasping.  Lest you think Jacob was an outlier in his family, today we get the story of Jacob’s son’s.  Now, biblical commentators warn about drawing too many parallels between Jacob’s family and modern families.  With Jacob’s two wives, and their two servants, Jacob’s children are descendant from four mothers – all living together and all giving birth to create one family.  But things were even more complicated than that:  remember, Rachel, the younger daughter of Laban, was Jacob’s favorite wife.  But for a long time, Rachel was unable to bear children, and Leah, the older daughter of Laban who Laban tricked Jacob to marry, was heartily fertile – giving Jacob six of his 12 sons (not to mention a daughter).  Rachel’s servant was offered to Jacob and produced two children in her stead, not to be unmatched by Leah’s servant who added two more.  Needless to say, this would have been a very tricky family to minister to at a funeral.

And although we don’t bless marriages to multiple wives, let alone marital-type relations with maid servants (who also don’t exist in modern times), we are very family with complicated families.  Between divorces, blended families, and a whole bunch of stuff we don’t talk about publicly, we know plenty well about how messy family can be.  That’s why today’s story about Joseph is not all that shocking if we’re being honest.  Like his parents before him (Isaac favoring Esau and Rebekah favoring Jacob), and his grandfather before him (Abraham, who cast out Ishmael when Isaac came along), Jacob had favorites among his children.  Jacob’s favorite was a double favorite – the favorite son from his favorite wife.  And Joseph was not the most mature or what we call “self-differentiated” member in the family:  In just a few short verses (and in some of the verses we skipped today), we know that Jospeh was a tattletale on his half-brothers, that he shared aloud two dreams he had where his brothers and father were bowing down to him, he sported a beautiful, embroidered coat – one designed for royalty (not shepherds) – and that his dad was unambiguous about his favoritism for Joseph.  You can hear the anger and projection in his brother’s words, “Here comes that dreamer!”  Now, we can argue about whether Reuben is a hero for ensuring the brothers threw him in a pit instead of killing him, or Judah was being caring by selling Joseph into slavery instead of letting him die in the pit – but the triangulation, conflict-avoidance, and lack of self-differentiation in this family is off the charts!  This would be a family systems professor’s dream case study.

But here’s the funny thing happening behind all that mess.  Joseph’s brothers aren’t the first people to try to stifle a dreamer.  On April 4, 1968, after having given his “I have a dream” speech in DC, and after rallying the sanitation workers in Memphis, Martin Luther King, Jr., was murdered.  He was murdered because many did not like his dreams and did not want him to speak any more about them.  On a memorial sitting outside the National Civil Rights Museum on the property of the preserved Lorraine Hotel where King was murdered are etched words from today’s passage:  “They said to one another.  Behold.  Here cometh the dreamer…  Let us slay him…  And we shall see what will become of his dreams.” 

At the heart of Joseph’s story, and the reason his story is so close to home, is certainly about family dynamics – but at an even deeper level is the problem of sin.  At the root of the hatred of Joseph and the desire to kill a brother is envy.  We know envy as one of the classic seven deadly sins.  Cain murdered his brother Abel out of envy.  Envy is prohibited in the ten commandments.  As theologian Geoffrey Hoare explains, “Envy is the name given to either that desire we have for some possession or quality or talent that belongs to someone else, or the desire that the other not enjoy some possession, quality, or talent…Envy can stem from the belief that there is not enough favor to go around, from a sense that life is fundamentally unfair, or possibly from simple greed.  Any of these causes for envy are in direct opposition to the revealed purposes of God for the world, and so envy gives rise to rebellion against the Lord of the universe.  In God’s economy, material circumstance is the source of neither happiness nor salvation.”[i]  Jacob’s brothers operated out of envy and in opposition to God’s economy.  The people of this country operated out of envy when talking about sharing equal rights.  We act out of envy every time we gather around this Eucharistic table caught up in our inability to operate within God’s economy, like Jospeh’s brother also ate together while their brother languished in a pit nearby.

Edwin Friedman wrote a lot about Family Systems, talking about the multigenerational nature of emotional or family systems.  “The theory is that patterns of relationship get played out and repeated from generation to generation, unless or until someone seeks to change those patterns, largely through self-differentiation and a willingness to resist succumbing to anxiety while the family system resists this change and seeks to return to its status quo.”[ii]  Abraham couldn’t see God’s economy when his first-born son came from his wife’s servant.  Jacob couldn’t see God’s economy when he stole Esau’s birthright and blessing.  Laban couldn’t see God’s economy when Jacob desired Rachel over Leah.  Joseph’s brothers couldn’t see God’s economy when Jacob loved one son over the other eleven.

What Family Systems tell us is that we cannot fix others.  Joseph could not force his brothers to see generously instead of seeing with jealousy.  We cannot force parents, siblings, children, friends, or fellow church members to see with God’s abundance instead of life’s scarcity.  Paradoxically, that is where we find the good news in Joseph’s story.  The only way to mend a broken family system is mend ourselves – to function in a non-anxious, self-differentiated way.  We won’t get to hear the whole of what happens to Joseph in slavery next week (spoiler alert – he serves as a slave for 12 years, is then imprisoned for many more years before his ability to interpret dreams is discovered by Pharoah.  He becomes Pharoah’s number two, saving the country and eventually his own people when a famine comes).  But next week, we will find a Joseph, who, in his ability to self-differentiate in an unhealthy system reencounters his brothers with forgiveness and grace, breaking generations of hurt.  By the end of the book, Joseph will say to his brothers, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.”[iii]

Joseph invites us today to step out of our generational habits of harm, and to step into habits of good.  Joseph invites us into redefining how systems malfunction but focusing on our own healthy functioning.  Joseph invites us to look through the lens of God’s economy where there is always enough, and not through society’s economy that only sees scarcity.  Healthy functioning is not easy work, and the work takes good partners for support and strength.  The church invites you to use this table not as a place to let your hurt and envy fester, but to release that hurt and envy to God.  This table will empower you to feel and know what belonging to each other really means.[iv]  Amen.

[i] Georffrey M. St. J. Hoare, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 3.

[ii] Hoare, 5.

[iii] Genesis 50.20.

[iv] Gary V. Simpson, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 5.

On Movies, Community, and God…

05 Wednesday Aug 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.yourcentralvalley.com/digital-enterprise/central-valley-theaters-to-celebrate-national-popcorn-day/

This past weekend our family went to see a movie together.  That may sound like a common thing to do, but I cannot remember the last time all four of us not only all wanted to see the same movie, but also knew seeing the movie in the theater would be of particular value.  The experience was everything we had hoped it would be:  an exciting, engaging story, the sound and visuals so vivid that you felt the movie tangibly, and a storyline that left you with much to talk about afterwards on the ride home.

In addition to being everything we had hoped it would be as a family and as individuals, what the experience also provided was something I had not expected:  the experience of a shared movie in a theater that is quite full.  I have heard people wax about how watching a movie with a community is a different experience than watching a movie on a streaming service at home.  And while the argument makes sense intellectually, experiencing the difference in person was something different.  In part, I think the difference come from what changed for us during the pandemic:  how, in general, we came to see mass gatherings in enclosed spaces as unsafe.  Other factors come into play:  the cost of a movie that can be prohibitively expensive, the easy access of thousands of viewing options on our computers and TVs at home, the convenience of watching a film on your own couch, in pjs, with the ability to pause for any kind of personal needs. 

But none of that compares to the shared experience that can happen in community – even a community of strangers.  It started with the previews, as I audibly heard people grumble in disapproval for an upcoming movie (Too scary!  Too gory!  Too boring!), but continued as the feature film began.  The smell of buttery popcorn filling the air, and the quiet background noise of popcorn munching.  The collective jumps in seats all around you as something suddenly scared or surprised you.  The groans or hands covering eyes as something gross appeared.  Or the collective whispers of ascent or even outright cheers or laughs when something universally good happened. 

Sometimes that is what I love about Church so much.  I love the shared smiles when a familiar hymn starts playing.  I love the nods of ascents or the quiet that falls when a preacher says something particularly poignant.  I love the giddiness of children at Eucharist that can shake up even the most serious adult kneeling next to them.  And I love the sharing of those experiences as we depart as people say, “I really needed that today,” or “That one part really spoke to me today.”  Like a movie, Church can be both a collective experience (providing the comfort of shared community), and an experience that is individually experienced alongside others (we may not make the same meaning of things, but we were in the experience together).  You may or may not be motivated to go to the movies soon, but I hope you will consider making your way to the shared experience of Church.  I imagine there will be delightful surprises and shared common experiences that will awaken something in your spiritual walk with God this week!

Sermon – Genesis 32.22-31, P13, YA, August 2, 2026

05 Wednesday Aug 2026

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One of the things we often talk about in church is our relationship with God.  We talk about God as a companion on our journey – one who walks with us as we grow and develop and change in our faith life.  We talk about God as one who is in dialogue with us – one who needs us to listen as much as we talk, making sure our prayer life is more of a dialogue than a monologue.  We talk about God as one who requires vulnerability – one who wants not just the glossy versions of ourselves that we present to the public, but also the messy, angry, and sometimes ugly versions of ourselves that we rarely let anyone see.  But rarely do we talk about God as sparring partner – a prize fighter, capable of leaving real physical scars, leaving us marked visibly for others to see.

That is the image we get from our Old Testament lesson today.  To understand how Jacob comes to wrestle with God at the Jabbok, we need to go back in Jacob’s story that we’ve been hearing all summer.  Jacob is a twin, the brother of Esau and son of Isaac and Rebekah.  Jacob’s name in Hebrew means, “the one who takes the heel,”[i]  because he grabs on to the heel of his brother as he follows Esau out of the womb.  The name turns out to be quite appropriate.  Jacob will be grabbing and grasping for much of his life.

The rest of Jacob’s story unfolds like a soap opera.  When Jacob is older, Jacob manipulates Esau out of his birthright.  Then, Jacob tricks his blind father Isaac into believing that he is Esau so that he can cheat Esau out of the blessing due to him as the firstborn male.  Jacob flees for his life from his angered brother Esau, returning to his family’s homeland.  There he meets Rachel and falls in love.  Unfortunately, Rachel is the younger of two unmarried sisters, and in a twist of fate, Jacob is on the receiving end of deception when he is tricked into marrying the older sister Leah first.  Not to be outdone, Jacob manipulates Laban, his father-in-law, and manages to trick Laban into giving Jacob most of the family’s livestock before Jacob flees yet again with his large family and wealth. 

But Jacob can only run so long before fate finally catches up with him.  Some twenty years since leaving home, Esau is in hot pursuit of Jacob.  Scared, Jacob sends some gifts as an attempted bribe for Esau.  But he hears that Esau is approaching with 400 men, and so Jacob splits up his family and sends them ahead of him, leaving Jacob alone at the Jabbok in the dark of night.  This is where our story picks up today. 

The story is a bit confusing, but basically Jacob wrestles with God all night long.[ii]  We are told that the two seem to fight as equals, but at the end of the scuffle, God strikes Jacob in the hip, leaving Jacob with a limp.  Jacob asks for a blessing from God, once again grabbing in life as his name portends.  God asks Jacob his name, and instead of lying to God like Jacob lied to his father, Jacob comes clean.  “Jacob,” he says.  Now this part may sound simple enough, but God is not simply asking for and getting Jacob’s name.  Jacob is confessing.  “I am Jacob – grasper of a heel.  I have grabbed my whole way through life:  cheating, conning, scheming, plotting, and taking what does not belong to me.  I am thoroughly psychologically broken, and now you have broken me physically.  So please, give me, cheater that I am, a blessing.” 

What happens next is a total transformation.  God gives Jacob a new name, “Israel.”  No longer will Jacob be known as the grasper.  Instead, Jacob will be known as one who struggled with God – and though marked by a limp, is one who came out a new person – Israel.  With his new name, “Jacob enters into a new future, and passes his name, faith, and future on to his descendants, who bear that name even unto this day.”[iii]

The reason I retell you the whole of Jacob’s story today is because we cannot fully understand the metaphor of wrestling with God until we understand Jacob as a person.  Jacob, father of the people of God, is by no means a shiny example of faithful living.  From birth, Jacob seemed destined for a life of manipulation, attempts at control, a willingness to deceive for personal gain, and constant scheming.  And though we would like to wag our fingers at Jacob, the truth is, there is a little bit of Jacob in each of us.  The reason we disapprove of Jacob is because at some point in our lives we have been a grasper of heels.  Perhaps we have not deceived on such a grand scale as Jacob, but we have certainly tried to manipulate situations toward our own personal gain.

But we also retell this story because we learn something about God.  Earlier we talked about a God who journeys with us, who wants dialogue with us, who expects vulnerability.  We often acquiesce to this God because we trust that God is a god of love.  Debie Thomas counterargues that, “The God who goes toe to toe with Jacob is not a God whose first priority is our ease and comfort.  He’s not a God who maintains a polite distance, minds his manners, and ‘makes nice’ to keep us happy.  No, Jacob’s God is wild and mysterious, unpredictable and strange.  Jacob’s God doesn’t hesitate to muck around in the mud for several hours to bring Jacob to his knees.  Indeed, the Hebrew word for ‘wrestle’ means ‘to get dusty.’  To get dirty.  This is no dainty, breakable God.  This is a God of dust and sweat and blood and tears.  A God who is willing to ‘become dirty’ to lift us out of the dirt.”[iv]      

Thomas goes on to say, “Wrestling, as it turns out, is not an irreverent thing, because it’s the opposite of apathy, the opposite of resignation, the opposite of quitting, the opposite of complacency.   It’s even the opposite of loneliness.  To fight is to stay close, to keep my arms wrapped tight around my opponent.  Fighting means I haven’t walked away from God, and God hasn’t walked away from me.  It means we both have skin left in the game.”[v]

After seeing The Odyssey this week with our family, the girls asked me about why Athena was so present with Odysseus in the movie.  If you haven’t seen the movie yet or read the book recently, Athena appears to Odysseus throughout his twenty-year journey.  She’s on the pin Odysseus’ wife gives him before he leaves for twenty years.  She is the goddess that Odysseus dedicates the Trojan Horse to – the horse that helps them brutally defeat Troy.  She appears to him as he struggles to find his way home and fights his demons from war and loss.  And in one of the final scenes (spoiler alert – although the Greek myth has been around for a while!), she is brought to tears as Odysseus essentially confesses his sins to her, in particular the sin of desecrating her honor when he conceived of that Trojan Horse – a goddess who had journeyed with him, despite his grievous sins.  Athena does not wrestle Odysseus, but she certainly gets down in the blood, sweat, dust, and tears of Odysseus – shedding her own tears along the way.

Jacob’s story and Odysseus’ myth point us to what life with God is like.  There are parts of our lives that cannot simply be healed or gently be brought to God in prayer.  There are parts of our lives that we are going to need entry into battle with God to transform them.  The wrestling is necessary because the wrestling forces us to push through whatever is separating us from God and who God calls us to be.  And for those of us who are particularly stubborn or prone to grasping like Jacob, the wrestling is required to break down our wills enough to get us to the place of being able to confess – confess who we really are to God.  Then, and only then, will we find our transformation – a renaming of who we are so that we can be fully who God invites us to be.  But be forewarned – no one leaves the ring from a match with God without a few scars.  Amen.

[i] Denise Dombkowski Hopkins, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 6.

[ii] Amy Merrill Willis, “Commentary on Genesis 32.22-31” August 2, 2020, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-18/commentary-on-genesis-3222-31, as found on July 31, 2026.

[iii] David Lose, “Tell Me Your Name,” July 24, 2011 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post= 1597 on July 31, 2026.

[iv] Debie Thomas, “The Limp and the Blessing,” July 26, 2020, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2703-the-limp-and-the-blessing on July 31, 2026.

[v] Thomas.

On Loving Self and Loving Neighbor…

29 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.christianitytoday.com/2018/10/just-kids-love-neighbor-as-yourself-mayfield/

Several weeks ago, I had a health event due to the extreme heat.  It was the first time I had experienced such a thing, and it threw me for a loop.  Since I had gotten to the point of crisis, I realized that maybe I didn’t know how to read my body as well as I thought I did.  Or maybe my body is just changing and I now need to read it differently.  Regardless, in the weeks since the event I have found myself looking inward a lot – analyzing miniscule details, observing new patterns, trying new practices, and being much more responsive to the weather forecast.

During my inner focus, our area experienced an air quality warning amidst high heat levels due to fires in Cananda.  The haze outside was thick and we were encouraged to stay inside as much as possible.  I was talking to my young daughter about the haze and the warning, still thinking about my recovering health, when she quite plainly asked, “But what about the homeless people in town, Mom?  How are they supposed to stay inside if they don’t have anywhere to go?”

Her simple question was like pulling the emergency break in my body.  Though prioritizing your health is important (helpers cannot help if they aren’t taking care of themselves first), I realized I had swung to an extreme such that I could only see myself and had paused my thinking about others.  It’s only human, and is certainly reflective of a unique short-term season, but it was eye-opening about how quickly we can forget the maximum of Jesus, “Love God.  Love Neighbor.”  If my relatively healthy body had been so impacted by the external environment, how at risk are my neighbors who are fighting not just the elements, but also a lack of basic needs like food, water, shelter, and clothing? 

I wonder what’s going on in your life that might have shifted your focus away from care of neighbor?  This is not an invitation into guilt.  This is an invitation into shifting energy – away from any wallowing you may be doing (about your body, your dissatisfaction with life, your frustration with the world) and toward something good – some change you can make for good.  Whether the invitation comes from a child, a random comment from a stranger, or the Holy Spirit:  how are you being invited to love your neighbor more fully today?

Sermon – Matthew 13.24-30, 36-43, P11, YA, July 19, 2026

29 Wednesday Jul 2026

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The parable in our gospel lesson today is a story about weeds – actually, one weed in particular, called the darnel.  The darnel is a nasty weed, wrapping its roots around the roots of good wheat, totally indistinguishable from wheat until producing seed, and life-threatening if allowed to mix in with wheat once harvested.[i]  Jesus tells the disciples that this menacing, evil, life-threatening weed is metaphorically planted in the field of the world.  These evil weeds are planted, growing, and thriving side-by-side with the nutritious, filling, wholesome wheat, intimately intertwined, impossible to separate without destruction to both.  And this, Jesus tells the disciples, is our world.  In one short parable, we have the reality of the enemy or devil, the problem of evil in our lives, and an accounting or judgment at the end of life.  Happy Sunday, huh?

In order to find some hint of grace in this parable, we first have to explore the bad news.  The bad news in this parable is like a funnel of evil, which starts out with a wide, removed description of evil, and as the funnel narrows, the evil comes closer and closer to home.  At the wide mouth of the funnel, we find the evil of the world.  We see evil in the world everyday – as people are kidnapped, tortured, and murdered.  We see evil as people are denied basic human rights, work in sweatshops, and are forced to flee from their lands.  We see evil as people live without shelter, food, or medicines.  And although we recognize the outcomes of evil, we get uncomfortable identifying “evil” because we hope for some hint of goodness in everyone and, secretly, we know that we too sometimes participate in the world’s evils.

Our funnel narrows as the master’s field becomes defined as not only the world, but also our church community.  Here is where the notion of “evil” weeds becomes even more uncomfortable.  Jesus experienced evil in the midst of his community, as individuals constantly sought to kill him.  The early Church also experienced evil in the Church’s midst.  And the evil within the Church is still with us today.  There is no perfect church.  I love this parish and the beautiful ways we care for and love one another – but I cannot claim that we are perfectly good.  In fact, each us has at some point been like that nasty weed, capable of choking the nutrients and life-giving water out of true goodness among us – a reality that makes us uncomfortable, both with the idea of judging each other, and with the potential of being exposed ourselves.

Then comes the tightest, most compressed area of the funnel – the spout through which evil finally flows.  The field in which evil is planted is also the field of ourselves.  Paul articulated this evil in his letter to the Romans, “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”[ii]  Paul’s words perfectly capture the inner turmoil of being human.  Imagining the weeds and the wheat growing up together in our own beings is not difficult.  We are constantly an intertwined field of great deeds and hurtful wrongs.  We pray that the good seed will yield fruit and the weeds will eventually be burned, but we know both weed and wheat are inside of us.  And so, the funnel shows us that evil is in our world among us, in our faith community beside us, and in our very beings.

The grace is that the funnel also works in reverse.  Grace spews out of the same funnel.  When the servants ask the master about whether they should go ahead and pull out the weeds, the master tells them to wait, letting the two grow side by side, entangled and indistinguishable.  This waiting time is the grace for our own selves.  Recognizing that both good and evil are in ourselves, God gives us time:  time to continue to nurture the good; time to avoid killing the good in our efforts to kill the evil in ourselves; and time to allow God’s grace to work in and through us, so that the goodness in us might be gathered into that barn.  As God is patient with us, so we are to be patient with ourselves.

The same grace moves out of the funnel, out of ourselves, and into our Church.  God gives us time as a faith community too.  The gift of time gives us the opportunity to live into God’s grace – witnessing goodness to one another, so that the evil among us might be overwhelmed and eventually discarded.  The gift of time for the Church also allows us to make amends for those times when we are the agents of evil in the church, confessing our faults weekly, repenting and returning to goodness.  The gift of time for the church allows us to learn and grow in God’s goodness, to marvel in the mystery of God’s grace, and to prayerfully lift up the Church to God.  God is patient with the Church just as God is patient with each of us.

Finally, the funnel of goodness spills over into the world through the gift of time.  The gift of time allows us to work on spreading goodness in the world.  We have time to give one more meal to a hungry person, to comfort one more grieving person, to advocate one more time for a just society.  And we realize in this gift of time that we are not responsible for sorting out the weeds and the wheat.  God will do that.  We can only work to cultivate goodness in our lives, in our community, and in the world – and the rest is in God’s hands.

When we realize that each of us is some mixture of wheat and weed, of holy and unholy, of potentially fruitful and potentially destructive, we can then turn away from God’s work of judging, and turn toward our work of attending to that which increases the potential for holiness.[iii]  In other words, the grace for us in this parable is that we can leave the judgment to God, and do our work of promoting goodness in ourselves, in our community, and in the world.  This is our work.

Barbara Brown Taylor tells another parable of wheat and weeds.  “One afternoon in the middle of the growing season, a bunch of farmhands decided to surprise their boss and weed his favorite wheat field. No sooner had they begun to work, however, than they began to argue – first about which of the wheat looking things were weeds and then about the rest of the weeds.  Did the Queen Anne’s lace pose a real threat to the wheat, or could it stay for decoration?  And the blackberries?  They would be ripe in just a week or two, but they were, after all, weeds – or were they?  And the honeysuckle – it seemed a shame to pull up anything that smelled so sweet.

About the time they had gotten around to debating the purple asters, the boss showed up and ordered them out of his field.  Dejected, they did as they were told.  Back at the barn he took their machetes away from them, poured them some lemonade, and made them sit down where they could watch the way the light moved across the field.  At first, all they could see were the weeds and what a messy field it was, what a discredit to them and their profession, but as the summer wore on, they marveled at the profusion of growth – tall wheat surrounded by tall goldenrod, ragweed, and brown-eyed Susans.  The tares and the poison ivy flourished alongside the Cherokee roses and the milkweed, and it was a mess, but a glorious mess, and when it had all bloomed and ripened and gone to seed the reapers came.

 Carefully, gently, expertly, they gathered the wheat and made the rest into bricks for the oven where the bread was baked.  And the fire that the weeds made was excellent, and the flour that the wheat made was excellent, and when the harvest was over the owner called them all together – the farmhands, the reapers, and all the neighbors – and broke bread with them, bread that was the final distillation of that whole messy, gorgeous, mixed-up field, and they all agreed that it was like no bread any of them had ever tasted before and that it was very, very good.  Let those who have ears to hear, hear.”[iv]  Amen.

[i] Talitha J. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 260.

[ii] Romans 7.19

[iii] Gary Peluso-Verdend, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 264.

[iv] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 36-37.