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Sermon – Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23, P10, YA, July 12, 2026

29 Wednesday Jul 2026

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When we read scripture in our bulletins, we mostly give scripture to you in one big lump.  We take out paragraph breaks, indentations for quotes or poetry, and certainly do not put Jesus’s words in red colored text.  If you’ve picked up a bible lately, you will also notice that the text often has headings – a descriptor to let you know what is coming up in the text:  a preview, if you will.  When I was in seminary, my New Testament professor told us we needed to be careful about those headings or story titles.  So, for example, if you call a story to tale the prodigal son as opposed to the tale of responsible brother; or you call a story the story of the Good Samaritan as opposed to the tale of the hypocritical leaders; or you call a story the anointing of Jesus as opposed to the misappropriation of expensive resources – the title makes a difference in how we read the story and how we make meaning.

Today’s gospel lesson is no exception.  Most of us hear this familiar story from Jesus and we know the story as The Parable of the Sower.  In fact, we get the story in two parts, and in my bible the second part is entitled, “The Parable of the Sower Explained.”  Countless Bible Commentaries refer to this story as the parable of the Sower, and many of us would do the same.  But here’s what’s funny about that title:  once we get into the weeds of this story, we quickly forget the title and start thinking of this as the parable of the soils. 

When we read scripture, we rightly seek to see ourselves in scripture – to discern what meaning there is for our everyday lives.  Now, I’m not sure the leap from the parable of the sower to the parable of the soils is unjustified.  When we read the explanation of why three-fourths of the seed does not flourish, we get a little skittish.  Am I soil on the path where birds snatch up the seed – because I failed to understand the Word and evil one snatches the good seed sown in my heart?  Am I the rocky soil, where growth sprung up beautifully, but died due to shallow roots – did I receive the Word of God with joy, but floundered when trouble or persecution came my way (because I’ve seen a lot of trouble and persecution lately…)?  Am I the soil covered in thorns, choking out the Good News – because the cares of the world and the lure of wealth has led me to place without Good News?  Jesus’s parable seems to indicate that for three out of four of us, we are that bad soil.  How can I be good soil?  Is there a way to fix my soil so I can bear fruit too?

Here’s the problem with substituting the title “Parable of the Sower,” with the “The Parable of the Soils.”  When we obsess about what kind of soil we are, we miss the point of this parable entirely.  This is a parable about the Sower – a parable about the nature of Jesus:  not about us – or at least not about us in the way we think! 

So, let’s take a breath, and go back to the text as Jesus intends (and why so many biblical editors chose the title of this parable as they did).  Barbara Brown Taylor argues, “If this is really the parable of the sower and not the parable of the different kinds of ground, then it begins to sound quite new.  The focus is not on us and our shortfalls but on the generosity of our maker, the prolific sower who does not obsess about the condition of the fields, who is not stingy with the seed but who casts [seed] everywhere, on good soil and bad, who is not cautious or judgmental or even very practical, but who seems willing to keep reaching into his seed bag for all eternity, covering the whole creation with the fertile seed of his truth.”[i]

That version of a sower is a bit uncomfortable if we are being honest with ourselves – because we would not go about planting in that way.  In fact, people in Jesus’ day wouldn’t have planted in that way either.  “Unlike a modern American farmer, who carefully prepares the soil with just the right pH balance and then injects the seed into the ground, farmers in Jesus’ time cast the seed and then plow the land.”[ii]  But that’s just looking at the story about literal farming.  Even looking at Jesus’ parable figuratively, we still wouldn’t follow his way.  As Debie Thomas articulates, we’ve thought “…over how to cultivate more fertile soil in [our] church or community.  [We’ve] analyzed and quantified, assessed, and judged.  [We’ve] evaluated ministry plans and strategies, pruned leadership commissions and committees, [We’ve] bought special pots, invested in high-end fertilizers and weed killers, and counted, sorted, and planted [our] seeds with exquisite care, placing each bit of God’s good news in its optimal place to guarantee an impressive harvest.”[iii]

Debie goes on to say, “There’s nothing wrong with planning and pruning.  There’s nothing wrong with honest and humble self-assessment.  But I think we miss something when we read the parable as a lesson about the ‘Four Terrains.’  Because that is not what [the parable] is.  It is the parable of the sower.  It is a parable about the nature and character of God.  God’s kingdom, God’s provision, God’s extravagant generosity when it comes to us, his creations.”[iv]

So let’s go back to the parable.  If this is a parable about who God is, what do we see?  Well, the sower does not seem care about the odds for successful reception of the Good News.  The sower doesn’t even for one moment examine the nature of the soil.  The sower sows seeds with abandon. The sower also seems to have an endless supply of seed and doesn’t seem to need to ration the seed or carefully plant the seed.  The sower just throws that seed everywhere, with abundance.  The sower also doesn’t seem to mind that the sower will only be successful 25% of the time.  The sower does not hold back, ration, strategize, or plan.  The sower throws around the Good News willy nilly, like a billionaire with so much money that she has lost sense of what each dollar means.  And here’s the funniest part about this illogical sower:  when there is a harvest in the good soil – that harvest is a hundredfold, sixtyfold, and even thirtyfold.  As one scholar points out, “Sevenfold meant a good year for a farmer, a tenfold meant true abundance.  Thirtyfold would feed a village for a year and a hundredfold would let the farmer retire to a villa by the Sea of Galilee.”[v]  This is very good news indeed, folks.

When Matthew was writing to first-century Palestine, he knew how hard a time and place Christians were in.  They were suffering poverty and persecution, massive migration out of the region, and even dissenters and false prophets.  They needed to know that the rejection of Jesus’ message didn’t mean their efforts were folly.[vi]  We know that truth today too.  For the parent offering guidance and compassion to the teen who doesn’t want to hear; to the businessman who pays a living wage and makes a quality product but watches clients buy cheaper elsewhere when times get rough; for the neighbor who seems intrigued by your passion for Hickory Neck but who seems to have an endless supply of excuses to never join you – we know what sharing the Good News is like.

For us, the invitation is the same as the invitation was for those first hearers of Jesus’ parable.  We are invited to be sowers of abundance – of extravagance.  We are invited to spread the seed of God’s love extravagantly, to liberate ourselves from the measures of success, and to give thanks for the abundant growth all around us.  “Look at [Jesus], tossing seeds to the wind with a delighted smile on his face, inviting us to release our own handfuls and revel in his joy.  He’s too busy laughing to count seeds.”[vii]  You can join his illogical, overflowing, joyful sowing too.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 26.

[ii] Talitha J. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 236.

[iii] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 137.

[iv] Thomas, 138.

[v] Arnold, 236.

[vi] Arnold, 238.

[vii] Thomas, 139. 

On GPS and Jesus…

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.supermomshuffle.com/how-to-be-productive-in-the-car-every-day/

The other day I was coming home from a meeting and trying to get home quickly.  My GPS told me to go a way that I knew had ongoing construction delays, and so I defied the GPS and went another way that I knew would bypass the traffic.  Halfway through the bypass, GPS suggested another route, but I stubbornly refused, and kept going my own way.  And then I hit a wall of traffic.  I sat still for about twenty minutes with no real possibility for turning around legally before I was able to return to normal speed (and home 20-30 minutes later!).  Once I finally cleared the backup, I begrudgingly thought, “I always trust my GPS to get me out of binds on the road.  What made me think today that I knew better?!?” 

How many times have I had the exact same experience with God?  I hear a whispering of the Spirit to go another way, and immediately think, “No, that’s a waste of time.  I’ll do it my way.”  I get a nudge from God to take action, and I resist, responding, “I’ve seen how that turns out in the past.  I’ll stay the course.”  Or I hear Jesus speak clearly about a call, and my response is, “No way!  Not today, Jesus.”  In all of those instances, despite my lifelong relationship with God, and despite evidence to the contrary, I think I know better.  I try to keep hold of the reins, instead of listening to the wisdom of God.

Now I know what you’re thinking.  God, or Jesus, or even the Holy Spirit, isn’t like a GPS.  There’s no clear voice telling me what to do, and there’s no follow-up instruction about how to recalculate the route in life.  And while that certainly may be true, equally true is the fact that both tools test our notion of control.  Both invite us to trust they have our best interest in mind.  I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve been rerouted by GPS off a major highway with massive delays onto a rural road in the middle of nowhere – praying that GPS knows what it’s doing and will return me to my route. 

Our relationship with God takes some of that blind trust too.  It feels similarly scary at times – almost like falling of a cliff, trusting a safe landing.  But unlike GPS, we only need to look at our scriptural Salvation Narrative, to look at a character like Jonah, or Ruth, or even Peter, to know that God faithfully guides us in the way to go.  Sometimes we jokingly say, “Jesus, take the wheel!”  I wonder where you’ve been refusing to give Jesus the wheel these days, and what fruit you might experience if you relented. 

Sermon – Genesis 21.8-21, P7, YA, June 21, 2026

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Rhonda sat on her bathroom floor crying.  The bathroom was the only place she felt like she could get a moment of privacy.  Her tears were the release she found for what felt like an impossible juncture.  Last summer things had been okay for Rhonda.  She was coping with her divorce, and managing to feed and care for her son on her own, despite the fact that her income from cleaning houses was so small.  She had managed to work out some government assistance that gave her enough cushion to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.  Life was not easy, but life could be a lot worse.

But during the last year, her world began to fall apart.  After a work injury, Rhonda could not clean houses for months.  Being self-employed meant she had no one to fill in at her houses.  After several months, her customers all got new help.  Because she was not working, her government assistance decreased.  The assistance programs required that clients work to receive assistance.  Rhonda could not clean houses because of her injury, and she did not have enough education to qualify for other work.  As the money became more and more scarce, Rhonda began to fear for her son.  Her son was looking thinner and more sickly each day.  He did not understand what was happening, and his deserved frustration had led her to the bathroom to cry.  Things had gone from bad to worse as Rhonda feared they would have no food, no home, or that she could lose her son.  All that was left to do was to cry:  to cry tears of sorrow, to cry out to God for mercy.

Hagar knows Rhonda’s tears.  Hagar is the handmaid for Sarah, Abraham’s wife, whom Sarah had given to Abraham to take as a wife because Sarah was infertile.  Hagar resented this action, and has already suffered a great deal, grappling with her powerlessness and lack over control over her most private, personal space.  Today the text brings us forward a few years in Hagar’s family.  Hagar’s son Ishmael is growing into a young boy, and Sarah has finally conceived her own son.  The birth of Isaac is a joyous occasion that all the family celebrates.  But just as Hagar has begun to reclaim her personhood, Hagar suffers again.  Sarah sees Ishmael – the son that reminds her of her infertility, who will not represent the blessed line of Abraham – playing with Isaac – her own son, whom she proudly bore and who will mark the blessedness of Abraham’s line.  Sarah turns to Abraham and tells him to send Hagar and Ishmael away.  Although Abraham is crushed by the idea, God supports Sarah’s decision.  For Hagar, the world is against her.  We hear no words from Hagar as Abraham loads water and bread on her shoulders, gives her Ishmael, and sends her out into the wilderness.

Hagar wanders in the desolate wilderness until she runs out of water.  Looking at her son, whose death she imagines is immanent, Hagar puts him under the shade of a bush and walks away.  She walks away and cries out to God.  She cannot watch the death of her son.  Not after all she has been through.  She cries out to God as her last resort.

The tough part of this story is figuring out why this is happening.  Why would Sarah condemn Hagar and Ishmael to death by having them driven out into the wilderness?  Why would God agree with Sarah, especially when Ishmael’s birth was Abraham and Sarah’s choice in the first place?  Why does Abraham give up his first son so easily, without a word to Hagar?  The grief and injustice in this passage are overwhelming, and we are left pointing angry fingers in multiple directions.

Hagar’s wilderness moment is not foreign.  We know those times when we feel like everyone is against us, including God.  The wildernesses of our lives are those desolate, lonely, dark places of wandering.  The wilderness is a scary, stark place of solitude that takes us to the depths of our finitude and forces us into encounters with God.  In the wilderness, we experience God in a way that we cannot not experience God elsewhere.  In the dry desert of suffering, which is scorching by day and frigid by night, with little water, we experience a sense of nakedness and vulnerability that we try to mask in our everyday lives.

Despite the darkness in the Genesis text today, there is also an equal measure of hope for the suffering.  The last third of the text we hear today is filled with God’s action for the afflicted.  First, God hears Ishmael.  The text says “And God heard the voice of the boy.”  This word “to hear” is important on many levels.  In the original Hebrew, Ishmael’s name means “God will hear.”[i]  Already, Ishmael’s name – God will hear – comes to fruition.  Further, the word “to hear” in Hebrew, shema, connotes more than physical hearing.  “To hear” in Hebrew also means “to understand.”  God understands how Ishmael and Hagar cry out. 

God’s second action is to make a promise.  The angel of God speaks to Hagar about Ishmael saying, “I will make a great nation of him.”  We know from scripture that God does not make promises lightly with God’s people.  God fulfills God’s promises.  If God says that God will make a great nation of Ishmael, Hagar knows to believe God.  No matter how dire things seem, God makes a promise, and God does not disappoint.

God’s third action is to open Hagar’s eyes.  The text says that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.”  In the opening of Hagar’s eyes, God allows Hagar to perceive God’s presence and action in her suffering.  God lifts the blindness that suffering and desperation create.  God shows Hagar the gift of life that God provides in the well of water.  God’s gift is abundant, and God reveals the gift when Hagar cannot see.

God’s final action is to be with Ishmael.  The text says, “God was with the boy.”  The verb “to be” is one of the most simple and basic words.  When applied to God, “to be with” has great meaning.  The text says that in all Ishmael does, in all the experiences Ishmael has, in all that Ishmael’s journey entails, God is with him.  God does not abandon Ishmael.  God does not forget.  God is with him.

One of my favorite Gospel hymns is called “He’s an On Time God.”  The song talks about the ways that God always comes to our need just when we need God.  The refrain goes, “He may not come when you want Him, but He’ll be there right on time.  He’s an on-time God, oh yes He is.”  The song describes the Israelites who crossed the Red Sea just before the Sea collapsed on the Egyptians, the relief of Job’s long suffering, and the feeding of the 5,000 by Jesus.  What I love about the song is the booming chorus of singers and the repeated affirmation that God is on time.  Now, the theology of the song is a little tricky.  I think the song misses something by suggesting that God is not always with us.  But the song is on to something.  I might rephrase the refrain to be something like – suffering may not end when you want it, but you will realize God is with you in the suffering right on time.  In this way, God is an on-time God.

We may not understand God’s actions, or why we suffer, but God is with us.  Hagar is a great gift this week for reminding us about what our relationship with God is like.  Hagar reminds us that we have an active relationship with God.  Hagar shows us that we can cry out to God in our suffering.  Hagar demonstrates to us that God is not a faraway god who is removed from our daily lives.  By crying out to God, we reveal our earthy, dynamic relationship with God.

Meanwhile, God’s actions toward Hagar show us that God has a reciprocal relationship with us.  God is active in our lives.  God hears us, understands us, and will act in our lives.  God is with us, all of the time, especially in our suffering.  When we enter into that relationship with God, crying out to God, we let go of notions of distance from God or personal control of our lives.  We allow God to open our eyes so that we can see God’s action in our lives.  By opening our eyes, God shows us the blessings God has for us.  God did not tell Hagar and does not tell us what our blessings will look like.  But there will be blessings.  God will open our eyes to reveal the bounty of blessing for us.  As we enter into that holy, vulnerable relationship with God, allowing our eyes to be opened, we see God’s blessings – right on time.  Amen.

[i] Gordon J. Wenham, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 2 (Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 88.

Sermon – Genesis 18.1-15, 21.1-7, P6, YA, June 14, 2026

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Today we get one of my favorite stories in scripture – Sarah’s laughter at God’s promise.  The story is perfectly crafted.  The story begins with a flurry of activity.  Abraham is sitting in his tent in the heat of the day when three guests suddenly appear.  As soon as Abraham sees them, he runs to greet them, begging them to stay.  Then Abraham springs the entire household into action.  He barks orders about baking cakes, grabs a calf and commands the calf be prepared for the guests.  He gets curds and milk and rushes to plate the feast for the guests.  We can almost imagine Abraham panting as he finally delivers the meals to the guests.

But then the story comes to a screeching halt, with a question that tells us what is really important.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?”  And slowly, the promise of a child to a barren, post-menopausal woman unfolds.  Abraham and Sarah were promised long ago to be the parents of a great nation.  But Sarah had given up on that dream.  She had already asked Abraham to go to her slave-girl and have a child with Hagar as a representative child for her.  Her action with Hagar had been a desperate move, but what else could she have done?  So, when this guest, or God, as the text later tells us, says that Sarah will conceive herself, after years of longing, hoping, feeling devastated and powerless, Sarah does what we all might do.  She laughs.  She laughs at the prospect of pleasure in her marriage when she and Abraham are so advanced in age.  She laughs at the impossibility that their pleasure might lead to progeny.  She laughs at the promise because believing the promise would mean opening herself up to unfilled dreams yet again.

Sarah’s laughter has long been used as a criticism for a lack of faith in God.  When God asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” and when Sarah quickly denies her laughter, countless readers have wagged their fingers at Sarah as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith.”  And I can see how we get there.  The exchange between Sarah and God – the laughter that bubbles out from years of hurt and disappointment, the scolding by God, the attempt to lie to cover up culpability, and the scolding yet again when God calls Sarah on her dishonesty – is all too familiar to us.  What the accusation of lacking faith forgets is how terribly vulnerable and resigned Sarah is.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have counseled who at the end of second marriage have begun to doubt God’s presence.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have sat with after receiving a bad diagnosis for themselves or their loved one who has begun to wonder whether God has abandoned them.  I cannot tell you the number of people have received yet another rejection letter who have begun to question God’s call on their life.  When Sarah laughs, I do not feel justification for judgment against her level of faith.  When Sarah laughs, I hear the ache of countless believers who know how ludicrous God’s promises and our hopes can be.

What gets me about the judgment of Sarah is the short memory of scripture readers.  In the chapter before what we heard today, Abraham is given the same promise that Sarah hears – a child by Sarah.  And his reaction?  He does not simply laugh quietly to himself as Sarah does in that tent.  He falls on his face and laughs a full-bodied laugh at God.  The only difference in laughter between Abraham and Sarah is that Abraham laughs in front of God whereas Sarah tries to hide her laughter.  Both are an acknowledgement of doubt about what God can do.  Both take all their disappointment, pain, and hurt, and dissolve into laughter because, quite frankly, sometimes God is laughable.  Sometimes God makes no sense at all, and laughing is the only release and protection from more hurt.  Humans questioning God is a natural part of a genuine God-human conversation, a conventional motif we see throughout the Old Testament.[i]

Old Testament scholar Kathryn Shifferdecker suggests an alternative interpretation of this passage:  that God may not be a God of judgment in this passage.  In fact, she sees God as fully understanding the comedy of the situation.  She sees a God with a sense of humor, who when God says, “Oh yes you did laugh,” says so with a twinkle in his eye.[ii]  Her theory totally shifts the reading for me.  Instead of an angry or disappointed God, who judges disbelief, our God is a God who understands that God’s promises are sometimes laughable – even if they are true.  Why else would God tell Abraham to name his son Isaac, which means, “he laughs,” in Hebrew?[iii]  As Schifferdecker explains, “Abraham falls on his face in a fit of laughter.  Sarah laughs behind the tent door.  And the LORD (I believe) laughs with them at the divine, wonderful absurdity of it all.  Given the humor of the scene under the oaks of Mamre, and the comedy of a God who acts in unexpected ways to fulfill God’s promises, it is entirely appropriate that the child of the promise should be named ‘Laughter.’”[iv]

The image of the three of them laughing – Sarah, Abraham, and God, makes a lot of sense once we hear the final words of Sarah.  In chapter 21, Sarah, perhaps initially embarrassed or doubtful of God, now says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.”  This story is not a story of shame for those of us who struggle with doubt, anger, or frustration with God.  This is not a story of an unfaithful follower of God.  This is a story about a woman and a man who look at the absurdity of God’s promise with the fullness of their humanity and laugh – hard, belly-shaking, on-the-floor laughter that only comes when the divine finally breaks through our disappointment, shame, and anger, and brings us to laughter.

I love this story even more as I think about the trinity of Abraham, Sarah, and God laughing.  Their laughter affirms our own incredulous walks with God.  Their laughter takes those moments when we no long trust God’s promises, and transforms them.  No longer do we need to hide away our deepest doubts, but instead we honor them.  We share them.  And we create communities of laughter with them.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, vol. I (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 465.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7],” June 18, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3301 on June 12, 2026.

[iii] Tamara Cohn Eshkenazi, ed., The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary (New York: Women of Reform Judaism URJ Press, 2008), 97.

[iv] Schifferdecker.

On Getting It Right…

10 Wednesday Jun 2026

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This coming Sunday our church is honoring a young parishioner who has just turned 13 – not because we want to celebrate a birthday, but because we want to honor the very real life-changes that are happening in the parishioner’s life at this significant developmental stage.  Last week, our Diocese hosted its inaugural Pride Service, where histories were retold, truths were honored, and where one queer attendee marveled, “I’ve never been to a worship service like this – especially not with my priest.”  And over the last six weeks, ten parishioners in our Discovery Class have been learning about the Episcopal Church, sharing their faith journeys, and asking hard questions about their faith and spiritual practices. 

What has struck me about all these experiences from church lately is how grateful I am that the Church is not at all afraid of the very real, honest, and vulnerable experience of being a human – and how the Church willingly steps along side us to help us make meaning.  What I have loved about these experiences is the absence of the word “should,” or any sense of judgment.  Instead, there is an abundance of wonder, curiosity, understanding, and care.  There has never been a feeling like something was taboo or inappropriate for question.  Sometimes just the naming of the thing – the transition, the hurt, the journey, or the longing – has been incredibly liberating and affirming.

So many times, the Church has gotten it wrong – has been an agent of judgment, exclusion, and hurt.  I have talked with many people who left the Church for a time (or permanently) because of such experiences.  Knowing that truth, I have been feeling especially grateful for a church who tries to be better – who acknowledges her faults and failings, and actively seeks to live in truth and love. 

I know many of you have stepped away from Church or have been hurt enough times by the Church that you are no longer interested in finding community there.  Know that you are loved and missed.  Also know that wherever you are on your spiritual journey, there are communities of faith who are working to be better – to be more loving, to be more affirming, to be more Christ-like.   For all of us, I lift up Thomas Merton’s prayer:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.  I do not see the road ahead of me.  I cannot know for certain where it will end.  Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.  But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You.  And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.  I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.  And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it.  Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.  I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.  Amen.[i]

[i] Thomas Merton, “A Prayer of Unknowing,” Thoughts in Solitude (New York:  Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, 1958), 79.

Sermon – Matthew 9.9-13, 18-26, P5, YA, June 7, 2026

10 Wednesday Jun 2026

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One verse in the Bible.  That is all we get for the entirety of Matthew’s call story.  One verse – just 30 words in the English translation we heard today – and only 20 words in the original Greek.  “As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’  And he got up and followed him.”  That’s all we get.  Jesus sees Matthew working, tells Matthew to follow him, and Matthew gets up and follows Jesus.  When God calls Abram in our Old Testament lesson today, God makes multiple promises to Abram, makes multiple promises about the people Abram will encounter, and makes promises for the whole earth.  Abram gets a whole list of reasons to pack up and go where God invites.  Matthew gets two words:  Follow me.

Many of us know what being called to go feels like.  Our high school graduates finish an almost lifetime’s worth of work, and then go:  to college, to the workforce, to a new life.  Many of us have taken calls for new jobs:  a military assignment, a promotion at work in the new office location, a job in a town with more opportunities.  And many of us have responded to calls that felt like vocations:  an invitation to serve internationally, a marriage proposal or a divorce that meant uprooting a life, starting school over again because you felt a call to a new vocation, or even venturing into a new part of town or with a new set of people because you felt a call to care for those who needed you.  In all of those scenarios you said yes.  You followed.  You went.

So where does our yes come from?  For Matthew, even though we only get 30 words of explanation, and seemingly no words about his why, there is more to the story.  First, we are told that Jesus sees Matthew at a tax booth.  What we know about tax collectors in Jesus’ time is that tax collectors are hated.  “Matthew was socially despised and hated by the Roman subjects because tax collectors were known to be corrupt and committed to the imperial system.  His tax collection helped sustain the empire’s elite and the unjust status quo.”[i]  So, right away we know that for Jesus to invite a despised man, Jesus sees differently than everyone around him.  Scholar Amy Frykholm says, “Jesus sees Matthew.  He doesn’t see Matthew, the tax collector.  He sees a full human being… Thus, Jesus and Matthew have an actual encounter.  Clearly, as they truly see one another, something changes.  [As Martin] Buber writes, ‘When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them.’”[ii] 

So, though we seemingly know nothing about Jesus and Matthew – we also know there is something profound happening between them – an electricity surging between them because they authentically and humanly relate to each other.  But there is so much more to know about where Matthew’s yes could come from.  In the very next verse, we learn that Jesus doesn’t just see Matthew and accept him fully.  Jesus sits with a whole table of outcasts:  more tax collectors, sinners, and his disciples.  When called out about this socially unacceptable behavior Jesus proclaims he is about mercy.  But Jesus’ mercy is not limited to outcasts.  A leader in the religious community asks for revival of his dead daughter and Jesus goes to heal.  A hemorrhaging woman, a defiled woman for over 12 years, reaches out to touch Jesus’ cloak because she believes Jesus will heal her too – and he does.  As Stanley Hauerwas says, “Jesus is what he does.  He has come to give his life so that we can live the life for which we were created.”[iii] 

That is where our yes comes from.  “Jesus’ ministry is marked by both urgency and accessibility.  Both those who are outcast and those who are part of the social establishment find in Jesus a compassionate heart.  Both those with acute needs and those with chronic pain find healing power.  Both those who reach out and those who need to be beckoned find attentive aid.”[iv]  I don’t know where Jesus is asking you to follow him these days.  I do not know whether you feel worthy of such a call or whether you are even interested in listening.  I do not know if your life feels like there is room for a yes right now.  But I do know that Jesus is extending his mercy to you today.  Jesus sees you – not for what you do professionally, or the things you do recreationally, or even for the ailments that seem to define you.  Jesus sees you.  Jesus calls you.  The electricity of Jesus is surging all around you.  Your invitation is to follow.  Amen.

[i] Luke A. Powery, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 117.

[ii] Amy Frykholm, “Healing Encounters,” May 31, 2026, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/4171-healing-encounters on June 5, 2026.

[iii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 102.

[iv] Alexander Wimberly, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 116. 

On God, Grace, and Letting Go…

03 Wednesday Jun 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.learningrx.com/harrisonburg/test-taking-tips-for-students-who-struggle/

As we approach the end of the school year in our district, I had a surprising realization.  Our kids are old enough now that we expect them to keep up with assignments, tests, and projects.  We keep an eye on grades each quarter, but the expectation to work hard and do your best is already established.  And each of our children had tough years this year:  one in a grade notorious for being academically rigorous, the other making a transition from elementary to middle school.  But even in the expectation of challenging years, we also put a lot of trust in our children to make it work.

So, imagine my surprise, as we talked about this being the last week of school, when I realized how much tension I had been holding in my chest for our children to get to this point – to successfully complete the school year.  I had convinced myself that I had put the onus on them to be responsible for their own experiences and successes.  And yet, as I’ve been releasing a 9-month held breath of tension, I realized perhaps I’ve been holding on more than I was willing to admit. 

I talk a lot about free will when I offer pastoral care.  Theologically, I do not believe that God directs good or bad things our way necessarily.  So, when questions arise like, “Why would God let this happen?” or “Why do bad things happen to good people?” my answer is not some explanation about a punishing God, or about predestination, or even about works righteousness.  Instead, we talk about the tremendous gift (and curse) of free will. 

But what I had perhaps not realized until this week is my understanding of God’s relationship to free will.  Honestly, I had sort of thought of God as cut off from the decision to give us free will – sort of “you made your bed now lie in it” mentality.  But as I observed my own physical reaction to the relief of the end of a school year (where I had supposedly totally trusted my kids’ free will), I wonder if God mourns along with us when the exercise of our free will leads to negative consequences instead of positive ones.  I wonder if God is sometimes holding God’s breath until we make our way through the ups and downs of life.  I’m not arguing I would ever want God to take away our free will.  But somehow imagining God’s heart as God’s children figure it out has given me a lot more appreciation for the cost of our free will – and perhaps a lot more grace for my children as I watch their journey through the ups and downs of life too.

On Spiritual Check-Ins…

27 Wednesday May 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.sjs.edu/blog/understanding-our-worship-liturgy-of-the-eucharist

What we say in our church’s Discovery Class is that if you want to know Episcopalians believe, you need to pay attention to our liturgies.  In our worship, you see the centrality of scripture to our sense of identity (both in the scripture we read and the way scripture is woven into the language of our liturgies), in our profession of the baptismal covenant, in the confession of and forgiveness of our sins, in the gathering at the table for the sustenance we need to go out into the world as Jesus’ disciples and agents of God’s love.  Our liturgies are rich with meaning, purpose, and identity. 

And yet, because we are a liturgical church, sometimes our liturgies can become rote, and we stop paying attention to the meaning behind the familiar words we declare.  That’s why this Sunday our church will be holding what we call an “Instructed Eucharist.”  The worship will follow the normal patterns, but there will be two key differences.  First, a narrator will join us to offer commentary sporadically to help us understand what we are doing every week and what those actions mean.  Second, our bulletins will be annotated – basically like an expert wrote notes in the margins to help us not only understand what different components mean in the liturgy, but also some pondering questions to help grow our faith.  We have offered these instructed eucharists a few times at our church, and we find every time that all of us (even the clergy!) deepen and renew our faith through the experience.

Given that offering, I have two invitations for you.  One, I invite you to watch – either in person or over on our YouTube channel (the service will archive so even if you can’t join in at 10:00 AM EST, you can still join in).  You won’t regret it, I promise!  Two, I invite you to take a moment for that spiritual check-in.  How is your faith life going these days?  Have elements of your practices – your prayer life, your attendance in worship, your connection to community – become stale or rote?  We all have seasons of rich spiritual lives and arid, wandering places in our spiritual journey.  No matter what season you are in, know that you are welcome here.  This Sunday we hope to offer some tools to help you on your way!

Sermon – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 17, 2026

27 Wednesday May 2026

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One of my favorite videos on YouTube is an experiment by the group called SoulPancake.  They asked six pairs of individuals, in various stages of relationship (from total strangers to a couple who has been married 55 years) to sit in two chairs facing one another, and without speaking, look into one another’s eyes for four minutes.  Four whole minutes.  Imagine four minutes of silent looking into each other’s eyes.  At first the couples seem a bit uncomfortable – initially unsettled by the forced silence, but ultimately jarred by what they quickly realize is deep intimacy.  Slowly over the four minutes the couples settle in, their faces transforming from discomfort to curiosity to deep connection.  You can almost see the sparks of love emerging in their eyes, tension draining from their bodies, and invariable smiles of appreciation spreading across their faces.[i]

When Willie James Jennings writes about the ascension of Jesus, one his primary concerns is that in focusing on the heavens, where Jesus ascends, the disciples will forget to focus on one another, on the stranger in need of witness, and on the presence of God.  Jennings worries that the disciples are looking “into the heavens concerned by absence rather than looking forward to see presence.”[ii]  The text from the Acts of the Apostles tells us of the last earthly day of Jesus’ post-resurrection life.  Jesus gives the disciples a commission and is lifted up into the clouds and whisked away.  The text tells us the disciples do exactly what you might imagine – they stand there, staring at the heavens, staring at the ascended Jesus.  I imagine that standing and staring had several iterations:  there was likely the stunned awe of the moment; there may have been some not wanting to leave for fear of missing what might happen next; there may be some immediate second guessing about what this all means; there may be some Peter-esque desire to preserve the sacred location of the profound moment; there may be a sense deep grief, or conversely a sense of profound joy.  Whatever those disciples are doing, they are not at all doing they are supposed to do.  Hence the men in white robes asking their very basic question, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”

This past week the clergy of the Diocese gathered for our spring clergy day.  The speaker for the day was The Rev. Canon Stephanie Spellers, talking about her new book, Church Tomorrow? What the ‘Nones’ and ‘Dones’ Teach Us About the Future of Faith.  Spellers spent the first part of her book and our clergy day talking about the numbers related not just to church decline across denominations and generations, but also the decline of civic membership in general.  Just as church membership has declined, so has membership in all membership-based groups, from the golf club, to service organizations, to fraternal organizations.  But what Spellers ultimately concludes is that we are not to get lost, standing and staring at the data.  Even given the grim data about behavioral changes, the Spirit is inviting us into being the Church on the move, meeting people where they are.

What Spellers sees now, and the men in white robes saw then, is there is danger in looking up in the heavens into absence as opposed to looking forward to presence.  Alan Hirsch tells us, “the biggest blockage to the next experience of God is often the last experience of God, because we get locked into it.”[iii]  [repeat]  What those men in white knew was that if the disciples stood there lost in themselves or even in the ascended Jesus, they would never get their next experience of God – they would get so locked into the mountaintop experience of Jesus’ ascension, that they would never make their way to the next experience of God – in their case, the great gift of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost.

That is our invitation today.  As we look at the changing nature of social engagement, as we wonder about the how or when we will ever emerge from the great divisions in our country, and even as we dream about what is next for Hickory Neck, a great whispering is happening nearby, saying “why are you standing looking up toward heaven?”  Our invitation instead is to resist letting our next experience of God be our last experience of God.  Our invitation is to gather in in prayer and community, as Jesus instructed the disciples, knowing that the Holy Spirit will do a new thing in all of us.  Our invitation is to walk down the mountain of the ascension and into the valley of witnessing the gospel of Jesus, looking forward not only for the presence of God, but taking time to gaze deeply into the eyes and lives of others.[iv]  This season of unrest and discontent in our time is not a time to be marked by absence, but instead is a time looking forward to see presence.  We can only see that presence if we pull our eyes from heaven and gaze into the sacred we find in one another.  The next experience of God promises to be greater still than our last experience of God.  I can’t wait to hear all about your next experience.  Amen.

[i] Georgia Koch, “How To Connect With Anyone,” SoulPancake, February 12, 2015, as found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xm-T3HCa618 on May 15, 2026.

[ii] Willie James Jennings, Acts:  Belief:  A Theological Commentary on the Bible (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 19-20.

[iii] Alan Hirsch and Rob Kelly, Metanoia: How God Radically Transforms People, Churches, and Organizations From the Inside Out (Cody, Wyoming:  100 Movements Publishing, 2023).

[iv] John S. McClure, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 525.

Sermon – John 14.15-21, E6, YA, May 10, 2026

27 Wednesday May 2026

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One of the funny things about parenting is that you enter into the role with some pretty set ideas about how you will parent.  You have spent a lifetime figuring out what you think is the right and wrong way to do most things, and you imagine that part of your role as a parent is to pass along this hard-earned wisdom.  One of those tidbits of wisdom I had planned to pass along was the importance of expressing remorse in relationships, being able to offer an unqualified “I’m sorry,” whenever needed to maintain an authentically loving relationship.  But once I actually started parenting, I had no idea how challenging that tiny phrase, “I’m sorry,” would be.  I never knew how much of apologies could show so little remorse.  I have witnessed the angry, shouted, “I’m sorry!”s, there have been the resistant, mumbled, “I’m sorry”s, there have been the sarcastic, eye-rolling, “I’m sorry.”s.  And parental requests for our children to “mean it” when they say, “I’m sorry,” are almost comical.  If I’m being honest with myself, how can I or anyone expect anyone else to apologize by force, command, or as a condition for something else?

I think that is what is so strange about today’s lesson from John’s gospel.  Jesus says “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” and “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.”  The commandments Jesus is talking about are those instructions to love God, love self, love neighbor.  In John’s gospel, they are the only commandments Jesus gives.[i]  And who would protest such commandments?  Of course we should all want to love God, love self, and love neighbor.  But there is something strange about the way Jesus presents his command to us – if you love me, you must do these things.  If you love me, you must obey my way.  As lovely as “love” sounds, there is something that harkens to those forced apologies about our text today.  I am pretty sure Jesus is not asking us to love others with a sense of bitterness, resentment, or obligation – and certainly without shouts, mumbling, and eye-rolling.

Some of you may be thinking, “What’s so hard about loving others?  Why would I resist that?”  We do not have to look too far back to see why I think loving others is actually hard work.  If you remember, right at the beginning of the pandemic six years ago, we all pulled together.  People immediately worried about our elders being able to safely procure food and supplies; we pitched in to make sure the hungry were fed with free school lunches and restocked food banks; we sewed face masks (before we had access to medical grade ones) and donated to charities to help protect the vulnerable.  Our collaboration, care, and support of one another was inspiring and invigorating.  But it did not take long for our demons to emerge.  As hard decisions arose about reopening businesses to buttress the economy, making cuts to make ends meet, or laying off employees to help businesses survive, we reverted to our divided, vitriolic ways from before the pandemic, not only disagreeing, but attacking the character, intelligence, and dignity of one another – a habit that has waned very little in the last six years. 

So, when we ask, “What’s so hard about loving others?” my response is, “This.  This is what is hard about loving others.  All of this is hard.”  As one scholar puts it, “It is NOT sufficient (or even meaningful) to profess love for Jesus while we hold ourselves apart from our fellow human beings.  To love Jesus is to love others.  All others.  The lover, the friend, the neighbor, the companion.  But also the alien, the stranger, the misfit, and the enemy.  The ones with whom we agree, and the ones with whom we emphatically disagree.  The ones we naturally like, and the ones we don’t.”[ii]  Another scholar pushes us even further, saying, “Authentic love is not passive; [authentic love] is active and demonstrative.”[iii]  Our love of Jesus is only as authentic as our active, demonstrative love of all others.

So, how can we possibly love that way?  The good news is Jesus says we will have help.  Just as Jesus has been an advocate for his disciples – “guiding, teaching, reminding, abiding, witnessing, interceding, comforting,” so they will have the Holy Spirit.  “What they have known in Jesus, and fear losing in Jesus’ impending absence, they will always know in the promise of the [Holy Spirit].”[iv]  What Jesus promises in John’s gospel today is big. 

Now, I know some of us get a little uncomfortable talking about the Holy Spirit – either the Spirit’s presence just seems too amorphous to be of any value, or the Spirit seems to do weird, dramatic things that scare us more than comfort us.  But Jesus is not simply saying the Holy Spirit will be ambiguously hanging around when Jesus is gone.  The Holy Spirit will be, and is, accompanying us.  As scholar Karoline Lewis says, “Accompaniment is not simply having someone beside you.  Accompaniment is not a mere ministry of presence.  Accompaniment means active and assertive abiding—an abiding that enters into places of fear and discomfort, uncertainty, and troubled hearts, and speaks the truth freely.”[v]

This is our good news today.  On those days when loving seems hard, when obeying Jesus’ command to love feels impossible, the Holy Spirit is and will be here to accompany us, to walk with us in fear, discomfort, uncertainty, trouble, and guide us into lives of love.  The Spirit is with us to enable us to be agents of love even when we doubt we can.  That promise today makes the invitation to love as Christ has loved us not only doable, but desirable.  That promise today helps us loosen our grip on resentment, anger, and fear, and open our hands to love and collaboration.  That promise today makes obedience to love feel like a gift.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Love and Obedience,” May 10, 2020, https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2640-love-and-obedience, as found on May 8, 2026.

[ii] Thomas.

[iii] Yung Suk Kim, “Commentary on John 14:15-21,” May 10, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/sixth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-1415-21-7 on May 8, 2026.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “A Time for Accompaniment,” May 10, 2020, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5433, as found on May 8, 2026.

[v] Lewis.