Monthly Archives: April 2026

On the Blessing and Curse of Church…

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.guitarhabits.com/how-to-play-guitar-with-a-band-or-group/

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.

Sermon – Jonah 3.1-10, Ecumenical Lenten Worship Series, February 25, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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This sermon was delivered at Mt. Vernon United Methodist Church, as part of an ecumenical pulpit exchange that happens with six other churches during in Lent in our county.

On this Wednesday in the first week of Lent, we get a portion of the Jonah story.  Before we jump into the specific set of verses appointed for today, we need to back up and recount the whole of the Jonah narrative so we can hear more clearly what God is trying to say to us tonight.  If you recall, Jonah’s story starts with a call.  God tells Jonah to go to Ninevah to proclaim judgment on their wicked behavior.  Now, “Nineveh was the capital of Assyria, the nation that destroyed the northern kingdom of Israel and held the southern kingdom of Judah as a vassal for almost one hundred years.  Assyria was more than an enemy; [Assyria] was a brutal occupying force that forever changed Israel’s fortunes.  Jonah is called out by God to go and prophesy to the enemy.”[i]

Understandably, instead of heading straight to Ninevah, Jonah goes in the exact opposite direction – hopping on a boat to sail away from the very scary and dangerous job God has given Jonah.  The next part you probably remember from Sunday School:  a storm comes up, the crew on the boat try to survive, Jonah is thrown overboard as a sacrifice and then swallowed by a very large fish, only to be spit out, and then told by God to get up and go do what God told Jonah to do the first time.  That’s where we pick up in tonight’s reading.

This time Jonah obeys – sort of.  He half-heartedly announces judgment on Nineveh.  The words we hear are “Forty days more, and Nineveh will be overthrown!”  In Hebrew, Jonah’s words are just a five-word sermon.[ii]  Despite his half-hearted five-word sermon, Nineveh springs into almost comedic action.  The people proclaim a fast and put on sackcloth.  The king ups the ante and sits in ashes and tells the people to stop all violence and even put sackcloth on their animals, hoping maybe, just maybe, God will relent and not punish them.  A great, all-powerful, brutal people humbly repent.  We are told God changes God’s mind based on their repentance and does not punish them. 

Now, this is where Jonah’s story gets interesting.  We didn’t hear this part tonight, but Jonah does not experience relief, or justification, or even pride, at making something great happen.  No, Jonah is angry.  Old Testament professor Beth Tanner tells us, “The NRSV plays down [Jonah’s] anger with the words ‘this was very displeasing to Jonah and he became angry’ (4:1).  The Hebrew reads roughly, ‘it was evil to Jonah, a great evil, and his anger burned.’  The ‘it’ of Jonah’s anger is the heart of the matter.  He tells God why he ran, ‘for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and ready to relent from punishing’ (4:2).  Jonah is angry at God for the very attributes that Israel has always depended on for [Israel’s] own salvation (Exodus 34:6-7)!  God speaks to Jonah, trying to explain, but the book ends without resolution and Jonah goes away mad.”[iii]

The funny thing about Jonah’s story is that Jonah’s story, if we’re paying attention, hits us right in our gut.  You see, we believe that God is gracious, merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing.  In fact, we bet our lives on God’s nature.  We spend forty days repenting of our sinfulness, attempting to amend our ways, seeking and expecting God’s profound forgiveness.  We only engage in this season of self-reflection and self-denial because we know God’s grace and mercy is for us, waiting outside an empty tomb.  But here’s where Jonah’s gut-punch comes from:  we are not always ready for God’s grace to be as available to everyone else as God’s grace is available to us. 

Now before you protest against this guest preacher, saying, “Hey now!  I’m not like Jonah!” I want you to take a moment.  I want you to resist your defenses going up and think of the person in your life who is hard to love.  That person may be a neighbor, or that black sheep in your family, or that friend or lover you cut off years ago.  That person might in a political office despite your vote to the contrary.  That person or group of people, like Nineveh, might be known for oppression and degradation that you cannot abide.  Scholar Tanner says, “My father always told me that if I did not believe that God would save the most foul of humans, then I did not really believe in God’s power to save my own soul.”[iv]  If I do not believe that God would save the most foul of humans, then I do not really believe in God’s power to save my own soul.

That, my friends, is why Jonah goes out into the wilderness in a huff and is angry at God for being God.  Because the bounds of God’s grace, mercy, and steadfast love are endless.  And even if we do not feel like our neighbor deserves that grace, mercy, and steadfast love, God knows a repentant heart much more deeply than we, and our God can change God’s mind. 

In this season of Lent, you are likely going to confess some grievous sins.  In this season of Lent, you are likely going to try to be more faithful – to walk more fully in the light of Christ.  In this season of Lent, you are likely going to come to the cross broken, having just been spit out of the belly of a very large fish, feeling defeated.  And God is going to love you.  God’s grace and mercy are going to envelope you.  God’s anger will be slow enough to not boil over that you will not be burned. 

And.  And, because that is the nature of our God, our invitation tonight is to make room for more people to be welcomed into that bosom of God’s embrace.  That does not mean you cannot speak truth to power.  Jonah certainly did.  But the judgment piece is not ours.  In fact, our speaking truth to power is rooted in the knowledge that there is room for all.  God’s mercy, grace, and steadfast love is for you.  And although you or I may not like sharing that mercy, grace, and steadfast love with certain individuals, the fact that God does makes God’s mercy, grace, and steadfast love even greater, even sweeter, even more humbling.  There is room in God’s embrace – even for someone like us!  Amen.

[i] Beth L. Tanner, “Commentary on Jonah 3:1-5, 10,” January 25, 2009, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-after-epiphany-2/commentary-on-jonah-31-5-10-2 on February 24, 2026.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Jonah 3:1-5, 10,” January 25, 2015, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-after-epiphany-2/commentary-on-jonah-31-5-10-3, on February 24, 2026.

[iii] Tanner.

[iv] Tanner.

Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YA, February 18, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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I have always regarded Ash Wednesday and our Lenten experience as the ultimate self-directed season.  The ashes on our foreheads remind us of how we came into this world alone and we will go out alone.  The disciplines we assume this day for the next six weeks are catered to our own journeys, focusing on what we have discerned we personally need to right our own relationship with God.  When I confess, I am struck by memories of grievances I have committed – images and feelings flashing before me as a particular set of words hits close to home.

But as I read Matthew’s convicting gospel this year, I remembered the wise words of New Testament scholar Karoline Lewis.  All those warnings Jesus makes, “Beware of practicing your piety before others…whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet…when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites…whenever you fast, do not look dismal…”, all of those warnings are not in the singular.  In the original Greek, they are actually in the plural.[i]  So the words are more like, beware of practicing you all’s piety.  Or maybe in Southern speak, “when ya’ll pray…” Jesus is not criticizing or singling out you or you or me.  Jesus is singling out the community of the faithful.

That may sound like semantics, but there is something quite dramatic about Jesus speaking in the plural versus the singular.  Every week in Sunday services, we confess our sins.  But we confess them communally.  Communal confession is an extraordinary event.  While we may feel lost or despondent about our inability to live in the light of Christ as individuals, when we communally confess, a room of voices is saying with you, “Me too!”

One of the things I grieved the most during the pandemic was our inability to gather in person.  I loved that we had and continue to have an online community – especially when people write things in the comments, greet one another, or meet Hickory Neck for the first time.  But our necessary isolation during the pandemic naturally led to a pattern of looking inward – sometimes so much so that we forgot we are not alone – that there is a whole community of faith who is walking this journey with us and struggling just as we are.  There is something quite powerful about listening to the voices of a 7-year-old next to the 77-year-old – the person who looks so put together next to the person who is clearly struggling – the dad with children next to the widow – all confessing together.  Week in and week out, those myriad voices remind us we are not alone.

Of course, part of that reason we get so focused on the self in Lent is because self-interest and self-focus is culturally entrenched in being a modern American.  There is both a blessing and a curse to the American dream – that any individual can achieve their dreams, if they just pull themselves up by their bootstraps – an argument that assumes everyone has bootstraps.  But indigenous New Testament scholar Danny Zacharias argues that we have a lot to learn from indigenous communities in Lent.  Zacharias says, “Traditional Indigenous cultures practice communal living and redistribution of resources, often rejecting the accumulation of wealth as a sign of individual success.  Indigenous communities also have high social expectations upon wealthier individuals to be the providers, especially for communal events.  Generosity and balance are seen as fundamental to a good life.  Indigenous leaders have historically been known for their generosity, with material lack by a leader being a strong sign of virtue and abundant generosity.[ii]  Jesus’ teaching affirms this principle, calling his disciples to a life where wealth is measured not in possessions but in righteousness and relationship with God.”[iii]

So if Jesus is talking to all y’all this Lent, and if we can learn something from indigenous communities this Lent, what does communal Lent look like?   One model might come from Pope Leo this year.  The pope said, “I would like to invite you to a very practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence:  that of refraining from words that offend and hurt our neighbor.  Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves.  Instead, let us strive to measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media and in Christian communities.  In this way, words of hatred will give way to words of hope and peace.”[iv]

Our invitation today as we enter Lent is to remember that the act of reconciliation and redemption does not happen alone.  We all are invited into a holy Lent.  We all are invited into prayer, fasting, and alms giving – even if that fasting looks like fasting from hurtful words.  We all are invited to remember we are dust.  In person, online, and hybrid together, we are not invited into solo, parallel journeys.  Our journeys are strengthened and made possible through the companionship of community.  You are not alone.  We are in this together.  And Jesus lights the way for us all.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, as described on the podcast, “Sermon Brainwave:  #889: Ash Wednesday – February 22, 2023,” February 17, 2023, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/889-ash-wednesday-february-22-2023 on February 17, 2026.

[ii] Randy S. Woodley, Shalom and the Community of Creation: An Indigenous Vision, Prophetic Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 155.

[iii] Danny Zacharias, “Commentary on Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21,” February 18, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ash-wednesday/commentary-on-matthew-61-6-16-21-18 on February 17, 2026.

[iv] Pope Leo XIV, as quoted at https://www.facebook.com/FrJamesMartin/posts/pfbid02uQANdoLUZ94niQnhZDvRN1vSQmSG6BckAQ3HwGm2PpLpGUmZtBCqqpKbijunr9Bwl on February 13, 2026.

Sermon/Annual Address – Matthew 17.1-9, LEP, YA, February 15, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Every January, once the year-end numbers are in, the pledges are finalized, new Vestry members lined up, and priorities established, Hickory Neck holds our Annual Meeting.  We celebrate a year of ministry, honor outstanding service, elect and commission new leaders, and get a glimpse of the year to come.  Of course, Mother Nature had something to say about that this year, and so, we rescheduled, and rescheduled, and are now, finally able to take a moment to pause to celebrate where we have been, who we are, and where we are going. 

On this celebration day for Hickory Neck, the assigned scripture for the day mirrors our celebrations.  Now, I am not promising our Annual Meeting or this Rector’s address will be anything akin to the transfiguration of our Lord:  though we are on the highest point in Toano, our location could hardly be described as a mountaintop, and although we are gathered with Jesus this morning, I cannot promise you will see Jesus in dazzling white – let alone Moses or Elijah.  Nevertheless, the similarities have been grounding for me this week as I too have been looking back, looking at our now, and looking ahead.

The three disciples Jesus takes up with him to the mountain do not experience a healing or a miracle like multiplying fishes and loaves.  Instead, the literal mountaintop experience they have is one of reflection, instruction, and action.  As Moses and Elijah appear and Jesus is transformed, the disciples experience clarity and wisdom about who Jesus is and how Jesus fits into their historical identity as the people of God.  As God speaks, saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” God tells the disciples what they are to do:  to be guided and directed by Jesus.  And then, much to Peter’s chagrin, who would like to stay on that mountain and revel in the majesty of the moment, the disciples do what every community does when they’ve been up to the mountaintop:  they come down.  They come down the mountain and if we kept reading chapter 17 of Matthew, we would learn that they get right back to work, healing the sick and casting out demons.

Your Vestry has been through a similar mountaintop experience.  They looked back at an incredible year of ministry:  they saw new ministries begin, like our programming for Middle School aged children – a first for Hickory Neck in over a decade.  They saw the average of individual pledges of giving and our average Sunday attendance increase.  They saw us welcome 15 new households in the last year to Hickory Neck, those experiencing homelessness housed in our buildings and done in partnership with other faith communities, and children taking a lead in worship.  They saw beds built, monies raised and distributed, animals blessed out in the community, and a lending library for adults and children.  They saw new leaders step up, reinvigorating our ministry to families with young children, donations made to seed a new worship service, and a new organ installation complete to help us expand our ministry of music with a new Minister of Music.  They saw a nonprofit organization, the Virginia Episcopal Real Estate Partners offer us a grant to seed new dreams with our Dream Team.  And maybe most importantly, they saw countless testimonies from you – our parishioners – who shared story after story about how even in the changes and chances of life at Hickory Neck, we continue to be a place where people feel a sense of belonging, of purpose, and of being loved. 

One of the things we talk about a lot in Vestry and among the staff is about Hickory Neck’s size – not so much about our literal numbers, but what being a church our size means.  You see, Hickory Neck is what researchers and experts in the field call a “transition-sized parish.”  Of the five size designations, our designation as transition-sized means that we are the only type in those five sizes of churches who lives in a constant state of tension.  The tension is pretty straightforward and one I imagine each of you can recognize:  the tension is in whether to be a parish who shrinks down in size, returning to a size where everyone knows each other and growth is limited or whether to be a parish who is growth-minded, continuing to push into a parish that can offer programming that both serves the needs of our current members and attracts new members.  Almost every time Hickory Neck experiences tension or conflict, the Vestry and staff recall the underlying tension that impacts our life here – that never goes away, but constantly forces us to make choices about how we want to be in the world. 

And so, this year more than any other in my time here, I watched your Vestry do exactly what God asked the disciples to do:  to listen to Jesus.  And so, rooted in prayer and relationship with Christ, sobered by the reality that we, along with most churches these days, must commit to new models of ministry – new ways of structuring revenue that can enable us to keep offering ministry in this sacred place we have come to love.  And so, rooted in that mountaintop experience, your Vestry and I invite you to come down the mountain with us – to get back to the work we have been given to do with Jesus.  We’ll do that in two short weeks when we host our neighbors experiencing homelessness again.  We’ll do that when our new Minister of Music gets settled and starts making a reality our dream of a vibrant ministry of music program that reaches the wider community.  We’ll do that when our leadership teams put in place the elements that can buttress church growth.  We’ll do that when we care for our members, care for our neighbors, and care for the world around us. 

Coming down the mountain is scary.  Jesus would not have come to Peter, James, and John, placed his hand on their shoulders and said, “Do not be afraid” if coming down the mountain wasn’t scary.  Coming down the mountain does not offer the same coziness as those three dwellings or tents Peter wanted to construct.  But coming down the mountain is the only way to get to the good stuff – to the stuff that feeds us, that feeds others, and that glorifies God.  Coming down the mountain is work, to be sure, but coming down the mountain is work that nourishes our souls and the lives of others, gives us purpose and meaning, and happens with a beautiful sense of belonging.  I am honored to join hands with you and come down the mountain together this year to watch and participate in what Jesus has in store for us.  Amen.