On Parenting, Milestones, and Community…

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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When my kids were younger, we delighted in their milestones:  regaining their birthweight, learning to crawl and then walk, eating solid foods, the first real smile, and finally speaking words.  There was a joy in each of those moments, but also a sense that things were okay – that your child was developing in the ways that they were supposed to, and were therefore healthy. 

These days, the milestones are different:  first love interest, first heartbreak, getting a driver’s license, first paycheck, being awarded honors.  I suppose those milestones are markers of healthiness too, and the delight comes just as strongly.  But somehow, these later year milestones are tinged with a hint of coming change.  Before too long our children will launch out into the world and the milestones will be their own to enjoy – celebrated independently of the protective sphere we hosted for so many years.

As I become wistful these days, I think of how God has viewed us over the years.  In Jeremiah 29.11-14, God addresses those who have been exiled from Jerusalem and sent to Babylon.  “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.  Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you.  When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, says the Lord, and I will bring you back to the place from which I sent you into exile.”

As I recall the ways God’s people have journeyed with God over the years, I suppose the milestones never cease – God is constantly seeking relationship and health for us, in all parts of our lives:  in the young formative years, in the youth of our adulthood, and in those middle and late years; in the darkness and what feels like times of failure; in the joys and in the successes.  God is present in all of it.

I wonder if the work we do that we label as “parenting through milestones,” is work that is not limited to biological children and parents.  Much like God journeys with us, God gifts us with people in our lives – friends, family, neighbors, church members, colleagues, and even strangers – who we can shepherd through milestones too.  Though our culture would have us believe we are independent lone rangers responsible for our own success and happiness, Christians community teaches us that we are much more interconnected and gifted the opportunity to journey with others through all those milestones of life.  I wonder who God is inviting you come close to:  to celebrate, to encourage, to console, and to delight.  We are in this work of life together. 

Sermon – Acts 2.42-47, E4, YA, April 26, 2026

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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“The meltdown started with a small thing — a bag of [lollipops].  Rachel Damgen’s four-year-old son wanted one.  She said no.  It was a few years ago, in the middle of the pandemic, when it was not unusual for her to be home alone for an 11-hour stretch with her two young kids. She was struggling with the isolation.  Small obstacles felt outsized…”  That meltdown, where she too ended up crying on the floor, “…was a turning point.  With their extended families far away in other states, she and her husband, Chris Damgen, began asking themselves if there was any way to reconfigure their lives in order to optimize for more support and community.  The answer they found was cohousing.”[i]

According to research, “The cohousing movement started in Denmark in the late 1960’s.  Today [cohousing is] an international movement.”  In the United States there are almost 200 cohousing communities across 36 states.  “Cohousing participants commit themselves to live intentionally in community.  Families live in private housing, but share public spaces, responsibilities, meals, resources, activities, and events.  Shared care for children and the elderly is often part of the mix.  Neighbors collaborate to plan and manage their communities.  Decisions often require consensus.  Cohousing is one response to the lack of social equity that the political scientist Robert Putnam of Harvard documented in his book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (2000).  Putnam showed how many people today feel disconnected and isolated.  We’ve accumulated what he called a growing ‘social-capital deficit’ that leaves people in our culture longing for a ‘more collectively caring community.’”[ii]

That same collectively caring community is what Luke describes in the lesson from the Acts of the Apostles today.  The scene takes place after the event of Pentecost, when the early church is forming and growing under the leadership of the apostles.  The reading first tells us some very basic tenants of life as a Christian – a new follower of Jesus.  We are told that after they are baptized, they do four things:  they devote themselves to the apostles’ teaching (so, what we might call Bible Study); to fellowship (think about small groups, Men’s Breakfast, or what some Episcopalians call the eighth sacrament, Coffee Hour); the breaking of the bread (for us this is weekly communion, but they also mean the actual sharing of meals after the ritual of communion); and the prayers (this is both the formal and informal prayers that were breathed in and out of daily life).  I imagine all those things sound very familiar and are things you too like about life in Church.

But then comes the twist from Luke that probably made each of you squirm if you were listening.  Luke tells us, “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.  Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.”[iii]  They sold their possessions and goods and distributed the proceeds to all.  Now, I know what you are thinking, “Here we go – here comes the financial ask to the Stewardship Campaign.”  Well, take a deep breath.  That’s not where we’re going.  Well, not totally.

Professor Willie James Jennings helps break open this radical way of living.  “It is not a new thing,” he says, “that people would offer up their possessions to a noble or religious cause…A different order of sacrifice is being performed here, one that reaches back to the very beginnings of Israel…  A new kind of giving is exposed at this moment, one that binds bodies together as the first reciprocal donation where the followers will give themselves to one another.  The possessions will follow.  What was at stake here was not the giving up of all possessions but the giving up of each one, one by one as the Spirit gave direction, and as the ministry of Jesus made demand.  Thus anything they had that might be used to bring people into sight and sound of the incarnate life, anything they had that might be used to draw people to life together and life itself and away from death and the end of the reign of poverty, hunger, and despair – such things were subject to being given up to God.  The giving is the sole purpose of announcing the reign of the Father’s love through the Son in the hands of communion together with the Spirit.”[iv]  In other words, coming into the life of Jesus and the walk of faith transforms the whole life – how one spends one’s time and how one regards and shares their treasure.  Those newly baptized into the newly forming Christian community were not just declaring faith in Jesus, or joining a Church:  their entire lives and way of being was transformed. 

The Damgen family moved into a cohousing complex in Oregon.  Moving into the community was a game changer – both for their mental health and for the health of their family.  They decided to have a third child because they knew the community would support them.  Rachel described a day where one sick kid had finally fallen asleep when another kid needed to be picked up.  Within five minutes, she found a neighbor who could sit in the home while the sick kid slept so she could run to the school.  Kids and elders play and visit together in the common spaces, pets are enjoyed across family lines, and, as one older widow in the community attests, the community helps conquer loneliness and isolation experienced by many in America.[v]

Now, I’m not saying we all need to move to Oregon or we all need to time travel to those early days with Peter and the apostles.  But what I am saying is being a part of Hickory Neck and being a faithful Christian means not just engaging the practices of learning, fellowship, communion, and prayer.  If we take the life and witness of Jesus seriously, our entire lives are transformed here.  How we regard others, how we regard our possessions, and how we regard our worth is changed.  As Matt Skinner says, “Deep care and concern are unavoidable fruit of Easter faith.”[vi]  When Jesus says in our gospel from John today, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,”[vii] Jesus gives that abundant life that through the vehicle of the Church and the Holy Spirit.  The shared gifts, the shared community, the shared sense of care and love is abundant in this place because we inherit the fruit of Easter faith.  Our invitation is not to go and do more work to inherit abundance.  Our invitation is to see the abundance all around us, to celebrate and share that abundance, and to invite others into that overflowing abundance with us.  Amen.

[i] Katia Riddle, “How to be not lonely? ‘Cohousing’ is an answer for some people,” December 1, 2024, as found at https://www.npr.org/sections/shots-health-news/2024/11/29/nx-s1-5210688/lonelieness-epidemic-social-isolation-parenting-cohousing on April 25, 2026.

[ii] Dan Clendenin, “Life Together,” April 30, 2017, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/1362-life-together on April 24, 2026.

[iii] Acts 2.46-47a.

[iv] Willie James Jennings, Acts (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 39-40.

[v] Riddle.

[vi] Matthew L. Skinner, Acts:  An Interpretation Bible Commentary (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2025),50.

[vii] John 10.10b.

On Seasons of Discernment…

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

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In my role as pastor and parent, I have recently walked people through all kinds of discernment:  about denominational affiliation or specific church membership, ranking college options, deciding on coursework for the next school year, discerning the right candidate for a job or the right job for a candidate, hunting for a home, pondering the journey of fertility, developing strategic initiatives, exploring new models of ministry, and even casting a vote in a special election.  Discernment across these varying life situations has some commonalities.  People feel a sense of anxiety about making the right choice, they experience the tension of the in-between or the liminal time between one reality and another, they feel the thrill of possibility and the hope of something unexperienced, and they feel a fear of the unknown and the inevitability of change.  There is almost a weightlessness or that tightness of the chest when one unconsciously holds their breath.  An end of discernment is definitive, but the results and the consequences are not always known.

When one is in discernment, there are lots of best practices:  mapping out the pros and cons to methodically sort out the decision, reading about the experience of others, conducting research with people who can testify to their experience or at least be a sounding board, and for those who are religious, lots and lots of prayer.  Part of the reason I am privy to these seasons of discernment for so many people is that I join the process as a companion.  In some instances, I suspect that those who are discerning come with a hope that I will just tell them what to do.  But ultimately, we both know that this kind of discernment really has to lie at the feet of the one deciding – and in my case with a lot of prayer for divine wisdom and inspiration.

Perhaps the hardest part of discernment is figuring out when you’re done.  In some instances, there is a deadline – a day the application is due, a cutoff for registration, or election day.  Discernment with a deadline is gift.  Though it can feel like more pressure, there is a concrete ending.  Open-ended discernment means self-imposing some guidelines about when you have listened enough, read enough, prayed enough, and worried enough.  There is often too much room for self-doubt and second-guessing.  But even in those instances, decisions still must be made.

I wonder where you are on your own discernment journey.  You may be thinking, “Oh, no big decisions for me.  I just keep living each day.”  But the truth is, we are constantly moving in and out of discernment throughout life.  Opportunities percolate up, invitations arise, diagnoses appear, and the Holy Spirit always seems to be whispering in our ears about what’s next:  a new ministry invitation, a person you can help, a book or a play that can shake up your worldview, or some other thing to keep you on your toes.  Knowing the reality of constant discernment, our invitation is to create habits that buttress our discernment.  That may mean tending relationships that are healthy homes for grace-filled discernment, developing practices for logically sorting through decision points, and, most importantly, nurturing a healthy relationship with the Holy Spirit so that when God is whispering in your ear, you’ve tuned yourself to the right channel to eliminate static.  My prayers are with you as you build your discernment toolbox.  And I can’t wait to hear what the Holy Spirit is doing! 

Sermon – Luke 24.13-35, E3, YA, April 19, 2026

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Today we hear a portion of Luke’s gospel that we usually label as “The Walk to Emmaus.”  The story is one we recall fondly, perhaps because of the comedic aspect of the disciples not recognizing the resurrected Jesus[i], perhaps because we like the gentle way Jesus walks and dines with the unknowing disciples, or perhaps because this story simply confirms that the Lord is risen indeed!  Whatever our reason, when the familiar story starts, our subconscious starts to check out as we say, “Oh, I know this one.  The walk to Emmaus!”

But this year, this passage has been hitting me a little differently.  As Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple walk to Emmaus on the evening of Easter Sunday, having had their hopes for a victorious Messiah be dashed by Jesus’ death, having heard the astounding tale by the women of an empty tomb and angels, and even having some of the men confirm the empty tomb, and they are now spilling their sob story to a foreigner, a stranger, a migrant[ii] – when they utter four words that have been lingering with me all week, “But we had hoped.”  Cleopas says, “But we had hoped that [Jesus] was the one to redeem Israel.”

Every person here is familiar with this road.  “We have walked [this road].  We’ve lost our way on [this road].  We’ve left [this road] and returned to [this road].”[iii] We call the road the walk to Emmaus, but we know this road as the “But we had hoped” road.  We had hoped the cancer wouldn’t return.  We had hoped the marriage counseling would make things better.  We had hoped our son would come home.  We had hoped for that new job or that college acceptance.  We had hoped the addiction or depression would heal.  We had hoped for different election results.  We had hoped for justice and peace.  We had hoped for our faith to survive.[iv]

So, what happens on this “But we had hoped,” road?  Despite the very grim nature of this road, we see two faithful disciples experience a whole lot of grace.  We first see that Jesus walks alongside, encouraging the questions of the disciples.  The disciples had a clear vision of how things were supposed to go with Jesus, and events did not happen in that way.  They are confused, and they have questions.  And although Jesus seems to scold them for not connecting the dots, he does spend time listening with permission.  The next grace we see is that there is space for risky conversations with Jesus.  Cleopas says some pretty risqué things to this migrant, as the Greek is translated.  He critiques the religious authorities of the time, he confesses his desire that the government would have been upended by Jesus, he proclaims that Jesus was the Messiah.  These are treasonous words said as they are fleeing town after their leader has been executed.  They risk the very conversations we avoid like the plague – religion and politics – because they feel safe with Jesus.

The third grace comes as Jesus reframes the disciples’ trauma.  Jesus listens openly to what the disciples describe, and then he patiently walks them through a biblical exegesis about what, who, and how the Messiah is to be according to the prophets and scripture.  Jesus honors their trauma, and then reframes their trauma in light of the Holy Spirit.  And the fourth and final grace of the “But we had hoped,” road is the intimacy of a meal.  This is not necessarily a Eucharistic feast – just a meal of blessed bread, broken and shared, and then eaten in the intimate way that one did in those days, reclined much more closely than we might in our modern sensibilities of personal space.[v]

Two scholars speak truth into this abundance of grace.  Professor Margaret Aymer argues, “Luke’s story reminds us that our relationship with the resurrected Christ is a relationship of long walks, risky conversations, reframed traumas, and quiet dinners—an intimate relationship between Christ and the church, of words shared and bread broken.”[vi]  Now you may still be thinking, “But we had hoped.”  Scholar Debie Thomas acknowledges, “Yes, we had.  Of course we had.  So very many things are different right now than we had hoped they’d be.  And yet.  The stranger who is the Savior still meets us on the lonely road to Emmaus.  The guest who becomes our host still nourishes us with Presence, Word, and Bread.  So keep walking.  Keep telling the story,” and having risky conversations.  “Keep honoring the stranger.”  Keep returning to scripture.  “Keep attending to your burning heart.  Christ is risen.  He is no less risen on the road to Emmaus than he is anywhere else.  So look for him.  Listen for him.  And when he lingers at your door, honoring your freedom, but yearning to feed you, say what he longs to hear:  Stay with me.”[vii]  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington III, The Gospel of Luke (New York:  Cambridge University Press, 2018), 658.

[ii] Margaret Aymer, “Commentary on Luke 24:13-35,” April 19, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-luke-2413-35-11 on April 17, 2026.

[iii] Debie Thomas, “But We Had Hoped,” Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 194.

[iv] Idea described by Thomas, 194.

[v] Aymer.

[vi] Aymer.

[vii] Thomas, 197.

On the Blessing and Curse of Church…

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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I was listening to a podcast recently where a couple of singer-songwriters were being interviewed.  When talking about the creative process of bringing together artists to create music, one musician described the experience as, “something really communal and almost like church, but for people that want to come together in a way that feels inclusive and safe for all.”[i] 

I understood what the artist was saying, completely.  The church for so many people has been a place of hurt – whether due to an experience around someone’s sexual orientation or gender expression, whether due to a divorce (either personally or watching the church handle the divorce of one’s parents), whether with the way hard conversations were had – with a sense of rigidity and judgment or with an openness to wonder and question.  I know the church has been a place of hurt because so many people have talked to me as a priest about their own resistance to Church because of that hurt.

But despite all my understanding and knowledge about how many times the Church has been the source of curse instead of blessing, the throw-away comparison of the music community this artist had experienced to the experience of Church hit like a gut punch.  Her qualification of Church not being a place that feels safe and inclusive for all hurt my soul so much that I literally felt the wind being knocked out of me. 

Perhaps the comment hurt so much because whereas this singer-songwriter found the Church lacking and found what Church is supposed to be somewhere else, I have spent a lifetime trying to find churches that strive to actually be what Church is supposed to be like – and certainly as a priest, I have tried to shape communities into being that kind of community.  I love being in a place that despite being pretty diverse politically and theologically, can happily celebrate the renewal of vows by a lesbian couple who has found a sense of home and purpose there; where former members of other denominations find a sense of welcome and acceptance that their former church withheld; a church who seeks out the liturgical leadership of young people, whether transgendered, neurodivergent, or just young, because they are some of our best leaders; where retired members show up at the sporting events, dance recitals, or theater performances of younger members; where parishioners with protest pins on their lapels kneel next to parishioners with bumper stickers of opposing viewpoints. 

I never want to minimize the hurt or victimization that people have experienced by the hand of the Church.  And even if I personally did not commit a heinous act of hatred, judgment, or exclusion, I know part of my work is atoning for the sin of the Church universal.  My prayer this week is that those who have only experienced exclusion and a lack of safety in churches might find their way to churches who strive to live another way – to live the love of Jesus fully and authentically.  And it is my prayer that for those of us striving to live in that other way that we remain humble about whether we have actually achieved that safety and inclusivity and keep remembering not the way of church politics, but the way of Jesus. 

[i] Maren Morris, “Brandi Carlile:  Good Hang with Amy Poehler,” March 31, 2026, as found at https://podcasts.musixmatch.com/podcast/good-hang-with-amy-poehler-01jktbqakmf0anjvx2tz394fjv/episode/brandi-carlile-01kn1tcfzgdg73vb0jhswns3xs on April 15, 2026

Sermon – Matthew 28.1-10, ED, YA, April 5, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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In the Episcopal Church we have this tradition of not saying the word “Alleluia” during Lent.  As someone who grew up in the Methodist Church, I was surprised to learn in my first Lent that we don’t sing songs that have the “a word” in them for six weeks, we eliminate liturgical responses that usually contain alleluias, and even our psalms for those six weeks do not contain the forbidden alleluias.  For some churches, they offer a ceremony for the children where they “bury the alleluias” – collecting written versions of the word around the tables at Shrove Tuesday and sealing them away in a box until Easter Day.  I’ve even had families who needed a funeral during Lent who asked if we needed to avoid any music or parts of the liturgy that say alleluia.  And while the answer is, “No, a burial is an Easter celebration,” you can see how ingrained the practice is for those in the Episcopal Church.

Given that taboo, you can imagine how liberating singing, saying, and shouting our alleluias are today.  We have fasted from that word of praise – the word that literally means “Praise the Lord!” – for six weeks.  And now we get to feast on alleluias.  We sing them – a LOT!  We say them in their normal places.  We add them in at the dismissal.  And in some settings, we even ring little bells every time an alleluia is shared.  If we have buried our alleluias, the kids release them with gusto.  This is a day of true celebration and joy.

While for some of us, the alleluias are what we came for:  we came to celebrate Easter, we came to gather with our family and friends and take pictures to remember the day, we came to jump off the Easter feasts we will enjoy later today, we came to be encouraged in a season that for many has been quite discouraging.  We want the alleluias, the egg hunts, the Cadbury eggs, the feast.  Meanwhile, for others, uttering those words of celebration – those alleluias – feels a bit…harder.  We really only need ten minutes of reading the news to know that this is no time in the world for celebration.  We only need ten minutes on social media to see the bickering and us-versus-them discourse to know that an alleluia is not going to wipe away our deep, deep divisions.  We only need ten minutes to recount all the people in our lives, and maybe in our own selves, that are suffering, dealing with a new diagnosis or a loss, who are missing loved ones or a broken relationship, to know that alleluias almost feel inappropriate. 

So how do we receive the gift of an alleluia today or even wholeheartedly shout those alleluias with such torn hearts and spirits?  Well, I like to go back to the text from Matthew’s gospel today.  We learn first that Mary Magdalene and the other Mary do not come to the tomb in joy – they do not come with flowers, with celebration clothing, or even with celebration words.  They come in grief.  They come to mourn.  As scholar Rolf Jacobson says, “The two Marys approach the tomb, expecting to see the tomb – the final resting place of Christ, the last sad chapter in his once promising story, the closing scene in the saddest story ever told.”[i]  So right off the bat, the Marys give us permission to come with all our stuff – our grief, our loss, our anger, our sense of helplessness. 

But perhaps even more encouraging from the text today is what the Marys do after the tremendously, shockingly good news.  We are told, “…they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy…”[ii]  I love that the text suggests that these two emotions – fear and joy – while contrasting, are also tremendously compatible.[iii]  The Marys are tremendously joyful.  They have learned that what awaits is not the saddest story ever told, but a story that ends with joy – with alleluias!  Jesus is risen.  The tomb is empty.  Death does not have the final say.  Alleluia, indeed.

And the women go in fear.  Their alleluias do not negate their fear, do not wipe away all that has been.  They have questions, they have lingering grief for what might have been, they do not know what an empty tomb really means for their everyday life.  Scholar Richard Dietrich describes the two Mary’s fear and joy, “They are altogether too full:  they are afraid for joy.  It is the kind of feeling we have when we fall in love, when we witness the birth of a child, when we lean over the rim of the Grand Canyon, joyous and fearful at the same time.  The women are running, afraid for joy…”[iv]

And that to me is the greatest gift of Easter.  We do not leave here with the sugary promise that the empty tomb makes life roses and sunshine.  We do leave here with an assurance that everything in the world that is hurting our heart will be just fine.  We do not leave here with all the answers about what will happen next in our world, even if we know what comes next in Matthew’s gospel.  But what we do leave here with is permission to be full of joy with our fear.  We leave here with a commission to share the Good News of the empty tomb with people cowering in fear elsewhere.  We leave here with a word lingering on our lips that lets us be gloriously afraid for joy.  Alleluia!  Christ is Risen.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia!  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Commentary on Matthew 28:1-10,” April 24, 2011, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord/commentary-on-matthew-281-10-2 on April 1, 2026.

[ii] Matthew 28.8.

[iii] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Matthew 28:1-10,” April 5, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord/commentary-on-matthew-281-10-14 on April 1, 2026.

[iv] Richard S. Dietrich, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 351.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YA, April 2, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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In 1984, the gay community in London was seeing a lot of violence and oppression by not only the police, but also the community.  While busy with their own activism, one gay activist caught wind of the Coal Miners who were striking in Wales.  Upon watching the violence of the police against the strikers, the activist realized the miners’ suffering was not unlike his own, and that of the gay community.  And so, in an act of solidarity and love, he organized his gay community to raise funds to support the families of the striking miners.

But not everyone was on board.  You see, the miners worked in small towns in which many members of the gay community had once lived.  In those small communities, they had been bullied, taunted, and beaten.  And now someone was asking them to come to their aid.  Many in the gay community could not turn the other cheek.  Why should they return hatred with love?  And as the gay activists soon learned, their help would not be readily received.  Why should the gay community risk further rejection, shame, and violence to support an oppressed people who refused to see their commonality?

Jesus shares a meal with his disciples as he has done on so many occasions.  Only on this night, he is among friend and foe.  He knows Judas is about to betray him.  He knows that Judas is about to put into motion a series of actions that cannot be stopped, that will lead to pain and suffering, and ultimately death.  Looking into Judas’ eyes, Jesus must have felt a betrayal so deep that he had to resist hatred as a human response.  “How could you?” would be an easy question for Jesus to ask in this intimate moment.

But Jesus does not do that.  He does not challenge Judas, or reprimand, or even expose Judas in front of the others directly.  No, he takes off his outer robe, takes a bowl and a pitcher of water, and he washes the feet of everyone in that room – not just the feet of those whom he loves – which would have been a poignantly intimate moment anyway.  But as he makes his way down the table, he shifts his bowl under the dusty feet of Judas; feet as dirty as the rest of them.  He takes the feet of this betrayer of his trust and confidence, and he manages to love Judas as deeply as everyone else.  Tenderly, lovingly, he washes the feet of the enemy of the worst kind – an enemy who was once a friend.  Love in the face of betrayal.

This year, Jesus’ tenderness with Judas has been haunting me.  I do not know about you, but the last thing I want to do is tenderly, lovingly care for my enemy.  Society teaches me to have a strong defense, to protect myself, and even to avoid conflict.  The norm is not to kneel down before a betrayer of trust, to make oneself subservient, and lovingly treat someone who acts so hatefully.  Only a fool makes themselves vulnerable before the enemy.  And yet, that is what Jesus does.  That is how Jesus shows the depths of his love.  Jesus does not use his power to thwart the enemy.  He restrains his power to bring the enemy in – always with the offering of love that can transform any heart.

Tonight, we will engage in the tradition of washing others’ feet.  Many of us get caught up the squeamishness of feet and the vulnerability such intimacy involves.  But something much bigger happens in foot washing than letting go of self-consciousness.  In foot washing we enter into the love of Christ:  washing the feet of those we know well and love; washing the feet of those we know only superficially; washing the feet of those who seem to have their lives totally together and those who we know are suffering; washing the feet of someone who has indeed offended you, and washing the feet of someone with whom you wish to reconcile.

But what we do literally here, we take out figuratively into the world.  Washing the feet of someone you know, or even someone you do not know well in church is one thing.  Washing the feet of the people who are not here is another thing entirely.  Though Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, the inclusion of Judas suggests that loving one another cannot be limited to the community of believers.[i]  All we have to do is imagine an actual enemy, someone who has betrayed our trust or offended our values, someone who oppresses the oppressed, someone who embraces hatred and division, and then we know how hard what Jesus does is tonight.  Tonight, some powerful feelings are set loose:  sorrow, loss, regret, even fear; but also, some powerful feelings are set loose by Jesus:  commitment, conviction, and determination.  God lays aside everything tonight.[ii]  Enter into Christ’s love tonight through the example he sets for us.  Know that God will use the power of this act to change your heart.

A year after that bold move by the gay community in London in the 1980s, much had happened.  Horrible things were said, mean things were done, violence erupted, commitments were betrayed, and help was rejected.  But a year later, even after ultimately losing their cause, the mineworkers did something out of character.  Chapter after chapter of mineworkers loaded onto buses, came to London, and marched for gay rights with their new siblings.  God’s love has tremendous power.  Even if that love cannot transform the heart of a Judas, the witness of that love slowly breaks through and transforms communities.  Join us tonight as we start locally.  Know that God will use your small action here to do bigger work out in the world!  Amen.

[i] Susan E. Hylen, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 275.

[ii] William F. Brosend, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 276.

Sermon – Ezekiel 37.1-14, John 11.1-45, L5, YA, March 22, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Today would be an easy day to hear these dramatic lessons and breath a huge sigh of relief.  We come to these texts today with the burden of literal death:  with friends who have recently passed or with those in the final days of life; with more instances of gun violence, killing teachers and students in schools; with innocent lives being caught in the crosshairs of international power struggles; with activists and immigrants dying in custody.  And that does not even touch the metaphorical death around us:  the death of civility and kindness; the death of being able to work across difference for the common good; the death of a shared sense of morality.  In these days of heavy darkness and death, we want nothing more than a breath of fresh air, a promise of hope and resurrection.

In many ways, that is exactly what we get in our lessons today.  Ezekiel shares a vision of resurrection and restoration.  The valley full of dry bones – presumably representing the people of Israel in exile in Babylon[i] – are brought back to life.  Through Ezekiel’s prophesying, God’s breath is breathed into the bones.  Bones reassemble, sinews and flesh come upon them, and even breath fills their lungs.  Reassembled, the bodies feel bereft in a strange land, but the Lord our God promises them they will be returned to Israel – to their land.  The same can be said of John’s gospel.  Lazarus is dead.  Four days dead.  The common Jewish understanding of the time was that the soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to return; but after those three days, the soul departed for good[ii].  There is no hope for Lazarus.  And yet, in Jesus’ deep love for this man, he weeps.  And then he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Into the next chapter, we even find Lazarus reclining on Jesus – not just alive, but living a life of abundance.

These are texts we want to hear today.  We want Holy Scripture to say, “Everything will be okay.  Everything will go back to normal.  You’re okay.”  And in some ways, that is what the texts seem to say.  The exiled people of Israel will be returned to their land.  The lost brother of Martha and Mary is returned to them in health and vigor.  Suffering is ended for both.  Life is restored for both.  We get to go back to normal.

And yet, I am not sure what our texts today are saying are quite that simple.  For the people of God in exile, Ezekiel’s words are a bit more complex.  The breath God breathes into them helps them remember that even in exile, God is with them.  God is animating them in a foreign land.  Yes, there is a promise to return to the Promised Land.  But we know that any great journey into suffering means that even when we return to “normal,” we are not “normal.”  We are changed.  Health may be restored, land may be restored; but we are forever changed.  The news for Lazarus is a bit more complex too.  Although Jesus brings Lazarus back from the dead, to live an abundant life in the here and now, Lazarus’ resurrection is not forever.  Someday, Lazarus will return to the ground.  We know, like the people in exile, Lazarus’ life after the tomb will not be like his life before.  And we also see in Jesus’ conversation with Martha that Lazarus’ death not just about Lazarus.  Lazarus’ death is merely a foretaste of the resurrection of Jesus.  This return to life is limited to one person.  Jesus’ return to life will change a people.

All of this is to say that today’s good news is good news indeed.  There will be life after this season of deaths.  There will be restored health and community after this season.  There will be renewed strength and vitality after this season.  But we will also be forever changed by this season.  We will see life and the gift of life differently than before.  We will understand our responsibilities for our common life with sharper insight and weight.  We will understand the gift of resurrection in new and deeply moving ways.  The promise of these passages in not simply a return to some “normal.”  The promise of these passages is a journey that will change us all – of valleys with dry bones, of weeping by bedsides, of crying out to Jesus.  The promise of these passages is the destination of Easter.  Not a return to some “normal,” but a new, profound understanding of resurrection in Christ.  In the meantime, Jesus weeps with us.  God is breathing life into us.  And soon, we will know the depths of resurrection life like never before.  Amen.

[i] Kelton Cobb, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 122.

[ii] Leander E. Keck, ed., The New Interpreters Bible, vol. ix (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 687.

Sermon – 1 Samuel 16.1-13, L4, YA (10 AM), March 15, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, we built this New Chapel.  We intentionally chose chairs instead of pews so that we could have flexible space – so that we could creatively use and reorient this space, freeing us for the movement of the Spirit.  And sometimes that arrangement is fully realized:  when we clear every chair out of this space for our guests in the Winter Shelter, when we bring in tables for Flip Flop Mass, or when we make this space an event space for Galas and Murder Mysteries.  But even when we’ve tried new accommodations for our growing choir, they have mostly been within the same space – not involving total changes like you likely experienced this morning. 

Leading up to today’s worship, I anticipated some angst.  I knew the choir would be happy, but I wondered:  Where would the households who normally sat there sit?  Who would be displaced when someone sat in their usual spot?  How would the movement of the pulpit change the experience of worship for someone who stayed in a familiar spot?  How long would the disorientation last and how many times might we have to adjust today’s arrangement before we find a new “Hickory Neck normal?”  I have watched you over the years, and I have seen parishioners graciously try to hold a pleasant face when the seat they normally like is taken – especially when the only seats left are on the dreaded front row!

At Hickory Neck, we tout one of our core values as a sense of curiosity – an openness to change.  That was one of the most attractive qualities about Hickory Neck when I was first being considered for the position of Rector here.  In truth, an openness to change and experimentation in churches is rare – a place more often associated with the line, “That’s how we’ve always done it.”  That openness has been a lifeforce for us:  as we’ve changed liturgies, as we’ve welcomed a school onto our property, as we navigated the changes and chances of a pandemic, and as we’ve navigated systemic economic and generational shifts.  That openness is a sacred inbreathing of the Holy Spirit and that openness is life.

And that kind of openness to change is not always easy or natural.  Just look at one of our main characters from the Hebrew Scriptures reading today.  Samuel has been the master of change.  He was deeply opposed to the notion of Israel’s desire for a king.  But God asked Samuel to anoint a king and so he anointed Saul as king.  Saul started out as a good king, but began to fail in the role.  And so, God told Samuel that Samuel would need to anoint a new king.  Samuel obeys again, but not without resistance.  At the beginning of the lesson for today, we find God scolding Samuel, “How long will you grieve over Saul?”  Samuel, who never wanted a king to begin with, became attached – got used to the new “way we’ve always done things.”  And in the face of change, we find Samuel grieving. 

Though we at Hickory Neck might be models of change management and followers of the movement of the Holy Spirit, that does not mean we do not have feelings – that we do not occasionally find ourselves grieving change.  Whether we are adjusting to sharing our property (did you ever notice the children at play signs we installed?), or lamenting the lack of touch during and since the pandemic (ever have someone reach out to hold your hand unexpectantly here?), or dreading the rearrangement of flip-flop mass (remember all the mosquitos, the poorly functioning mics, and the road noise when we gathered outside instead?), or that silly, almost primal, gut punch when something as simple as a seat you’ve been accustomed to is occupied and you need to sit in an unfamiliar space at church.

Here’s what we know though.  Even though Samuel grieves what has been, what he has invested in, what he has risked his reputation for, Samuel follows God’s call anyway.  We cannot underestimate that response.  Samuel was not just overcoming feelings, Samuel was also taking a tremendous risk.  Samuel articulates as much when he tells God Saul will kill Samuel if he finds out he’s anointing a new king.  “To anoint a new king while the old one lives would be seen by Saul as treason…”[i]  Even the elders of the city where the new king will be anointed are trembling when they greet Samuel.[ii]  The danger is palpable, and yet, Samuel goes and he anoints.  And not only does he anoint a new king, he anoints the most unlikely – certainly not the son of Jesse he expected as the first seven sons were presented.

What I love about this story is that this is not just a story that recalls that old timey hymn, “Trust and obey, for there’s not other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.”  No, Samuel’s story is what scholar Donald Olsen calls a dance in leadership.  Olsen explains, “Samuel heard God speak and his first response was protest and inquiry.  Samuel wanted to understand the parameters and responsibilities, the realities and consequences, and gain assurance that God understood them too.  At times, God responded with more detail or altered plans, giving the impression that it was cocreative process.  At other times, God responded, ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it.  Go!’  Samuel now acted in knowledge and faith, walking where God directed and doing as God instructed.  God’s call was not to blind obedience, but cocreated purpose, toward which Samuel walked at a steady and healthy pace.”[iii]  In fact, when describing the cocreative process, the dance of leadership in the church, Olsen adds, “Perhaps that is why David liked to dance so much; he was dancing out the details with God.”[iv]

We are in a season of cocreation, of dancing out the details with God too.  Whether we’re dreaming new ways to envision our property to ensure revenue streams for future generations of Hickory Neck, whether we are addressing immediate budget gaps with creative funding sources that can buttress our generous annual pledging, or whether we are simply rearranging furniture, the work we are doing not simple obedience, but a beautiful dance of working out the details with God.  That dance means God will push us out of our comfort zones, that sometimes God will give us insight and sometimes God will just tell us to go, and that sometimes we and others will do things that initially seem scary.  But what we know, and why we value curiosity and change so much at Hickory Neck, is that dancing with God means moving in ways that release joy and satisfaction in ways that our bodies cannot find outside the dance floor.  Amen.

[i] Carole A. Newsom, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 101.

[ii] Newsome, 101.

[iii] Donald P. Olsen, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 102.

[iv] Olsen, 102.

Sermon – Genesis 12.1-4a, L2, YA, March 1, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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We’ve been talking a lot about college in our house.  I recalled my own experience of that first year of college with my older daughter recently.  I was so ready to leave home and start my “adult” life, I was beyond thrilled to be able see Duke basketball games in person, I was eager to start my studies so that I could take on that big job, and I knew I would have a ton of fun.  As I packed my bags, I felt like the world was full of promise and hope and I just knew I was going to have an awesome college career.  In many ways, my college experience was one of the best experiences of my life – one where I learned so much more than I expected, I made lifelong friends, I experienced my first sense of call to ministry, and I did in fact enjoy many a basketball game.  But that first year of college was nothing like the picture looking back now.  I had an awful freshman roommate experience, I struggled with the rigor of classes at first, I had a hard time finding a group of friends I really liked, there were multiple things I either tried out for our wanted to be invited into that I was not, and there were times that I wondered what in the world I was doing there.

As I listened to our Old Testament lesson today, I wondered how much Abram felt the same way about his own journey.  The very short passage from Genesis today says, “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.  I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.  I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’”  At first glance, Abram’s invitation sounds awesome!  He is invited on a journey with God and he is promised God will bless him, will give him plenteous offspring and power, and he will essentially be famous.  Who wouldn’t want to pack up their earthly belongings and hit the road with that kind of invitation?  The upcoming journey sounds like one full of promise, hope, and abundant joy.

Of course, there are a few slight indicators of how hard this journey might actually be.  First God tells Abram to leave his country, his kindred, and his father’s house – all without a map of where they will be going.  Scholar Carol Newsome reminds us, “In traditional societies the kin group is the source of identity, economic benefit, security, and protection.  To leave such a fundamental social network is to put a great deal at risk.”[i]  And then there is the text we do not read today.  In the verses immediately preceding this text, we are told that Abram’s father has just died.  We all know what the death of a parent can do to a person, and can at least imagine the intense grief Abram is working under when he says yes to God.  And the text immediately after where we stop tells us that Abram is about 75 years old at this point.  So, a man well beyond the prime of life, who is freshly experiencing grief, who has probably long since lost hope of bearing any children should be able to guess that this journey will not be all roses and rainbows.

In fact, we know that the journey is not as hope-filled as our lesson makes the journey out to be today.  This man whom God says will be blessed and be great hits all kinds of bumps along the way.  If you remember, Abram passes off his wife as his sister several times to avoid danger to himself.  When he still does not have any offspring, Sarai eventually convinces him to sleep with her handmaiden Hagar.  Though Hagar bears him a son, Abram eventually casts Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness when his wife Sarai gets jealous.  And of course, we cannot forget that Abram is also forced to take his one son by Sarai, Isaac, up on a mountain to be sacrificed – believing all along that God intends for Abram to kill his only heir.  Sounds like a real journey of blessing, right?

That is the funny thing about journeys.  We are not often promised that our journeys will be blessed.  But even when we hope that they will be blessed, the blessing never comes immediately and is often masked by long intervals of pain and suffering.  We have lived that life here at Hickory Neck.  Almost three hundred years ago, people from Williamsburg were told, “Go.  Go from the conveniences of town and settle in a rural, farmland that I will show you.  I will make of you a great church, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.”  At least, that’s how our histories of Hickory Neck read.  We too were a people of hope and expectation – at least until a certain war broke out and our side lost.  The building had its own adventure with students, residents, and injured soldiers.  And then, over 100 years ago, the dream emerged again.  We took a stab at the dream:  first with a small group of families, and then more and more friends, and slowly strangers gathering.  We had lots of clergy – some staying longer than others – some vicars, some rectors, some associates, and deacons.  We built buildings, bought more land.  We experienced church growth and church decline, budget surpluses and budget deficits.  We welcomed new ministries, a school, and joined the digital world.  When God said, “Go,” who would have ever guessed the journey would play out the way the journey has.

Sometimes our Lenten journeys have that same feel.  We fill ourselves with pancakes, and then the next day, kneel with resolve to take on some discipline.  We look forward to the blessings of Lent – the intimacy with God the journey will bring, the learning will we do, the peace we will gain, or even the couple of pounds we might lose.  And when we hear a story like the Old Testament lesson today, we feel pumped up and ready for an exciting journey.  We may even imagine God making similar promises to us:  You will be blessed in this Lenten journey.  And yet, if we think back to any Lent in the past, we might remember how difficult our discipline became by week four or five.  We might remember how that cool discipline we chose did not really turn out to be as great as we imagined.  And depending on how stable we were at the time, that sense of failure could have brought more of a sense of curse than blessing.

How do we know that blessing awaits and what do we do in the meantime?  What do we do when those days come – because they will – when we feel discouraged and lose that sense of promise and hope that God gives today?  If we look to Abram, we see that our only option is to go – to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  The lesson today says, “So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.”  The journey for Abram is risky, full of potholes, and ultimately full of some wild twists that might have turned Abram back at any point.  And yet, “Abram went.”  We are lucky enough to know that Abram becomes Abraham – the man that would eventually become a father of entire people – in fact of several faith traditions.  But Abraham never got to see the fullness of that blessing.  His life was more one of blessing in hindsight, not really an everyday blessing-fest.

In some ways, that is all we can do too.  God constantly calls us into a journey – whether during Lent or in whole phases of life.  God promises to bless us and love us along the way.  But we know the journey will be hard at times, and leave us feeling discouraged.  And when that happens, all we can do is put one foot in front of the other, and keep on going.  Of course, we have each other along the way, much like Abram had Lot.  In fact, the last words of today’s lesson are, “and Lot went with him.”  So, whether you are in that blessed state of bliss, or you are already struggling in your steps, God still tells you to go.  Our response is difficult, intimidating, and profound, but also extremely simple.  We go, knowing the journey will be blessed.  We go, knowing friends will journey with us.  We go, knowing God is with us.  We go.  Amen.

[i] Carol A. Newsom, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 53.