Tag Archives: darkness

Sermon – John 18.1-19.43, GF, YC, April 18, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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There is something about Good Friday and the passion narrative from John’s gospel that is gruelingly convicting.  On most days we do a pretty good job of convincing others and ourselves that we are fine – that we are working hard, trying to love and serve others, and be a faithful follower of Christ.  But if we are honest, part of what is so hard about facing Good Friday is that facing Good Friday means facing ourselves – facing our failures, our sinfulness, our lack of ability or even willingness to actually follow Jesus. 

I confess that the last four months, one of my coping mechanisms for facing the state of our country has been to read, listen to, and watch less news.  I was finding that my mental health was getting diminished the more time I spent reading, listening, and watching the news, so I just stopped.  I filled the void with music, or people, or movement, but not with knowledge.  That has been my method of coping, to shut out the ugly, painful, and evil, because the alternative has felt overwhelming – so overwhelming that I can scarcely put together words around my devastation about who and how we have become, especially as people of faith.

But coming here, listening to John’s words, engaging in the Good Friday liturgy feels like the exact opposite.  Listening to that passion narrative feels like standing in an ocean of sinfulness, failures, and all that is not of God, and having waves of devastation hit us over and over and over again.  If we are really listening and really being honest with ourselves, all of the bad of this story is not bad that others do – but bad that we have all done at some point in our lives.  We grieve over Judas because we too at times have thought we knew better than Jesus and took matters into our own betraying hands.  We grieve over Peter because we too have prioritized our survival instinct over faithfulness.  We grieve over Caiaphas because we too have argued our way through the ethics of choosing the lesser of two evils instead of not choosing an evil at all.  We grieve over Pilate, seeing how hard he tried to do the right thing, because we too have caved under peer pressure and fear.  We grieve over the chief priests who are caught up in anger and the desire to remove a thorn from their sides because we too have often wished that someone difficult would just go away.  We grieve over soldiers who follow orders even when they know they are doing wrong, because we too have towed the company line.[i]   

Coming to church on Good Friday is our way of turning the news back on, sitting in the ashes, being fully and honestly ourselves in ways that we rarely do because doing so is painful, vulnerable, and scary.  But doing so also opens us up.  When we allow ourselves to face the fullness of human depravity – the fullness of our own depravity that we try so desperately to hide – we open up a path in the darkness to the light.  We agree to this exercise of turning on the news because we trust that the Church can empower us into another way – can help us find light and life in the ocean of darkness and death. 

When I was training to become a priest, I spent a summer serving as a chaplain in a hospital.  The days were long, and you never knew what situations would be thrown at you – from folks making their way through routine surgeries, to people in the ICU unable to communicate what landed them there, to people holding vigil with a beloved (or dreaded) family member.  I remember one day in particular getting paged up to a floor for someone approaching death.  When I arrived, the nurses told me the family had left for the day, but the patient of the family would likely die in the next hour.  The family lived further than an hour away, and had asked that someone sit with her in their stead.  The nurses had decided I was that someone.  And so, I sat, with someone whose story I did not know, whose faith and piety was unknown to me, and, at that point, with no knowledge of what the moment of death actually looked like.  And so I sat, uncomfortably called to a task I felt completely ill-equipped for, and yet, by my identity as Christian, was called to perform.

In that horrible ocean of Good Friday, there is light in our darkness.  Despite all those faithful people who failed Jesus so horrifically and fully, four people hold vigil.  They show up.  They stay.  And, eventually, by doing exactly what you are doing today – sitting in the inconceivable darkness of Good Friday – they see a glimpse of light.  Three Mary’s (Mary, Jesus’ mother, Mary wife of Clopas and sister of Mary, and Mary Magdalene) and the beloved disciple stand near the cross.  They do not protest, they do not fight, they do scheme.  They hold vigil by Jesus, facing the evil of the crucifixion of the Messiah, and they stay.  They do not run away, they do not cover their ears or eyes, the do not try to mask the ugly in something pretty.  They bear witness together, gathering at the foot of Jesus’ cross, staying fully open to the awfulness of the cross.

In that moment of gathering – of not really doing something other than being present – something transformative happens.  Jesus says some of the words we label as the Last Words of Jesus.  Jesus says to his mom, “Woman, here is your son.”  And then he says to the beloved disciple, “Here is your mother.”  What commentators say about these words is that Jesus created the new family unit with these words.  Now, I get a little skittish when we call church communities families because families are so incredibly complicated and the term “family” can be so loaded – often with negative connotations.  Instead, I might say that, in his abandonment and death on the cross, Jesus creates a path of light – a way to find companionship, community, and Christ – through relationships with Jesus at the center.  Peter Gomes describes the moment beautifully.  He says, “…what we find…is Jesus redefining the concept of family:  What it is, who belongs, and what it does.  It should not surprise us that here on the cross…he now reorganizes human affections.  He redefines human relationships, creates a new family, and in the center of it is to be the remembrance of him.  This is a family that is made not by blood, not by the old way, but by love and care:  that is the new way.”[ii]

On the one hand, this new definition of our relationships is beautiful in and of itself, and perhaps that beauty can sooth all the grief we talked about surrounding this scene.  And, on the other hand, there is a charge in this gift, in this path of light.  For months I have been trying to figure out what the call to us as Christians is at this time – especially for the “family” or “community” here at Hickory Neck that is so diverse in its political expression.  What unites us, that community that we have formed for centuries gathering around the common table is found in this moment in Good Friday.  In the turmoil and divisiveness of this time, Jesus reminds us that we are obligated to one another.  We are parents and children.  We are lovers and loved.  Even, and especially, with those people with whom we have no blood connection to – we are bound to one another in Christ.  And it matters when members of our gifted community are being persecuted, are being made afraid, are being made “other” – are essentially being booted out of our community of love.  In this turbulent time, we cannot run off, we cannot avoid, we cannot seek the lesser of evils.  We can gather at the cross and bear witness – bear witness to the encompassing love of Christ and the community to whom we are now obligated to love too.  In a world where we may feel like there is no way, Jesus breathes words of love and life into every one of us – words that cannot be contained in our own lungs and hearts and souls.

I do not know where this path of light in the darkness will take us.  I do not know how Jesus is calling you to be mother or father or son or daughter.  I do know that even in the darkest of days, Jesus sees light in you.  Jesus sees goodness in you.  Jesus see possibility in you.  And if we have nothing left to celebrate, we can walk out of here today commissioned in love and light.  Amen.

[i] Jim Green Somerville, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 300, 302.

[ii] Peter J. Gomes, The Preaching of the Passion:  The Seven Last Words from the Cross (Cincinnati:  Forward Movement Publications, 2002), 32

Sermon – Luke 15.1-3, 11b-32, L4, YC, March 30, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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Having studied family systems, and living in a nuclear family with three first-born children, I am keenly aware of, if not wholly empathetic to the older brother in the story we traditionally call that parable of the prodigal son found in Luke’s gospel.  This is such a complex, intriguing story, that our attention is often focused just by naming this parable “The parable of the prodigal son.”  But a seminary professor once warned me that what we call parables highly influences our understanding of them.  I think that is why this year, being so captivated by the older brother, I might rename this story what scholar Rolf Jacobson calls the story:  The Lament of the Responsible Child.[i]

By renaming this parable The Lament of the Responsible Child, we immediately are able to reconsider his story – perhaps not as the petulant stick in the mud, but the justifiably angry family member.  The older son has done what has been expected of him.  He is obedient, hard-working, and would have never insulted his father as deeply as his younger brother does.  He is the consummate good and faithful servant.  And so, when his father, who, by the way, has never given much praise for the older son’s obedience, throws a party for his wayward brother, the older son finally snaps.  He throws a first-class temper tantrum, refusing to come into the party and then yells at his father about the injustice of such a party.

What is so visceral about the older son is we know his reaction all too well.  Two strong emotions take over the older son.  First, he is struck with a serious case of envy.  The older son sees the party for his wayward brother, and covets the party.  Out of respect of family tradition and cultural mores, he never asked for even the smallest of parties for himself and his friends.  But even responsible children get sucked into envy’s power.  I remember when our girls were younger reading one of the Berenstain Bears children’s books call the “Green-Eyed Monster.”  In the book, Brother Bear is celebrating his birthday, receiving gifts.  Sister Bear is mostly fine with this arrangement, remembering her own birthday party earlier in the year.  That is, until Brother Bear gets the most beautiful, sleek bicycle she has ever seen.  Then the Green-Eyed Monster takes over.  But just so that the adults do not think they are immune, before the story ends, Papa Bear gets a visit from the Green-Eyed Monster too when a neighbor gets a fancy new car.  The point is that envy and jealousy are all too familiar to us.

But envy isn’t the only emotion that takes over for the responsible child.  The other emotion that takes over is self-righteous indignation.  The older son is legitimately right about his younger brother.  His younger brother did sin, was disrespectful, behaved selfishly, and disgraced the entire family.  The younger brother does not deserve the reception he receives.  That is exactly what makes the reception so full of grace.  But the older son is so blinded by his self-righteous indignation, that he cannot see the blessing of his father’s reaction.  As one person describes his situation, the older brother is “standing outside in the dark, perfectly right and perfectly alone.”[ii]  Perfectly right, and perfectly alone.

 When I conduct premarital counseling with couples, we talk about the ways that spouses and partners behave in disagreements.  Every family and couple has them, and so our counseling focuses on handling disagreements in healthy ways.  I once had a priest tell me that the three most important words for any marriage are, “I.  Am.  Sorry.”  They sound like three words that are simple enough to say.  But, somehow, we have a hard time saying them.  Partly we struggle with saying them because we think they mean admitting guilt or, even worse, defeat.  Very few of us like to lose.  But that same priest told me, the next three most important words are, “You.  Are.  Forgiven.”  As hard as apologizing can be, sometimes forgiving can be even more difficult.  But forgiveness is the only thing that can keep our relationships in balance.  Ideally, by one person saying, “I am sorry,” and the other saying, “You are forgiven,” both parties give up some of their power.  Both parties submit something of themselves to the other.  When one party is unwilling to say one of those things, they become like the responsible child – perhaps perfectly in the right, but also perfectly alone in their rightness.

What the older brother teaches us is that sometimes we have a choice between being right and being in relationship.  In some ways, much like the younger son has been in a distant country, the older son is also in a distant country.  He has cutoff connection to his brother, to his father, and even to those who have gathered to rejoice over the new life his brother has been given.[iii]  In choosing to be right, he stands out in the darkness, unable to rejoice in another’s joy, closed off to the hope of redemption and reconciliation.  In endless paintings, woodcuts, and sculptures of this scene, whether Rembrandt, Jan Shoger, or Margaret Adams Parker, the older son stands at a distance, hands or arms crossed in front of him, cold and rigid.  Artists capture what our minds have already imagined – the guarded, distant body language of one choosing rightness over relationship.

Perhaps why the responsible child’s story is lingering with me is because we do not know how he responds to the father’s invitation – the invitation into his joy – to celebrate a reconciled relationship – much like the reconciliation the older brother can enjoy if the older brother just comes into the room.  The story ends with the ultimate cliffhanger that does not let you know whether the older son remains outside the party or comes inside the party.  Certainly the father’s desire is for him to come in, but we do not know whether the son chooses rightness or relationship.  I have wondered what would happen if the older brother went into the party.  What if the younger brother fell at his brother’s feet too, saying those three hardest words, “I am sorry.”  What if the two men simply embraced – saving words for later.  What if the joy and laughter of that room cracked through the older brother’s tough exterior, and warmth began to seep into his heart.  What if…

In many ways, I think the story ends openly to remind us that we too have a choice.  We too can choose to be right – to hold on to the things in life about which we are justifiably angry and disappointed.  We have every right to protect ourselves and even our family and friends from the kinds of behaviors that hurt us emotionally.  We can be guarded and keep our distance – standing out in the darkness of rightness.  Or we can choose to come into the party, and see what happens.  We may not be able to say “I am sorry,” or even, “You are forgiven,” but we can at least step through the door, into the warm glow of a room that is bursting with abundant grace and love for us and for all – that place where all are forgiven and all are loved.  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, as shared on “Sermon Brainwave:  #1014: Fourth Sunday in Lent (C) – Mar. 30, 2025,” March 11, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/1014-third-sunday-in-lent-c-mar-30-2025 on March 27, 2025.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “The Evils of Pride and Self-Righteousness,” Living Pulpit, vol. 1, no. 4, O-D 1992, 39.

[iii] David Lose, “Preaching the Prodigal,” March 3, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/preaching-the-prodigal on March 27, 2025.

Sermon – Luke 21.25-36, A1, YC, December 1, 2024

04 Wednesday Dec 2024

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Many years ago, when my husband and I were driving from our honeymoon in the Outer Banks back home to Delaware, we decided to take the scenic route.  At the time, the idea of a scenic drive sounded romantic.  We were excited to take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.  And of course, as newlyweds, we were just excited to have more time together.  But by hour ten, I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I devolved into a whiny mess who could not keep still and who huffed and puffed in frustration.  I kept shifting around and fidgeting in my seat, and I am pretty sure I groaned at some point, “Are we there yet?!?”  Any notion of a romantic journey was lost – all I wanted was to get home immediately.

I feel similarly about Advent.  As a priest well-trained in preaching from the lectionary, I know I am supposed to be appreciative of the intentional ways in which the lectionary shapes, prepares, and teaches us.  But as soon as Advent starts, I struggle not to get overly excited.  I think about the Advent candles, the beautiful blue vestments, and the greenery.  And because I know what is waiting for us on December 24th, I turn into that car-trapped honeymooner, complaining, “Are we there yet?!?”  Since I know a baby is coming, all I want to think about is Mary’s pregnancy, her relationship with Joseph, and the long journey to Bethlehem.  I am not saying I need to celebrate baby Jesus right away, but I at least would like to throw a baby shower or see Mary’s baby bump.

But that is not how Advent is presented to us in the beginning of Advent.  Instead of talking about the first coming of the Christ child, we talk about the second coming of Christ.  Instead of giddy, romantic stories about lovers making it work with an unexpected pregnancy, we get dark, foreboding tales of earthly disorder and destruction.  Instead of happy expectation, we get sober warnings to prepare ourselves and to stand guard.  Normally, I do not mind these texts at the beginning of Advent.  Theologically, I understand the concept of framing the first coming of Christ within the second coming.[i]  I understand that in order to appreciate Christ’s birth I need to remember what his birth means many years later.  I understand the need for a warning about being on guard for the second coming – a reminder that I do not get to enjoy all the fun stuff of Christ’s birth without realizing the significance of Christ’s death and return as well.  But emotionally, I am tired of being on guard.  I am tired of earthly destruction and political tension.  I am tired of feeling like the end is upon us.

That is what is so hard about Advent this year.  We are already on guard this Advent.  With an election that left us deeply divided, wounded, angry, and some scared; with war, death, and upheaval in the holy land we hope to celebrate in four weeks; and with natural disasters wiping out whole towns and transportation systems, we know all too well the reality of living in fear, guardedness, and preparation for the darkness of this world.  And quite frankly, when we come to church, especially in this season of preparing for the Christ Child, the last thing we want to do is dwell on the darkness.  We want some light from Christ too.

Many years ago, there was a film series called the Hunger Games.  For those of you unfamiliar with the series, the movie featured a dystopian future after a failed revolution.  As punishment for revolting against the Capitol, the Capitol designs what is called The Hunger Games – a battle to the death in which two children from each of twelve districts faces one another in an arena.  Not unlike ancient practices in Rome, and yet uncannily familiar to modern times, the residents of the Capitol watch the games with a detached sense of enjoyment as they cheer for their favorites.  In the first film of the series, President Snow talks to the head of the Games about why they have the games and a winner in the first place.  “Hope:” he explains, “It is the only thing stronger than fear.”  He goes on to say, “A little hope is effective.  A lot of hope is dangerous.”  You see, the President wants to keep people oppressed.  He knows that the people need to fear him – but he balances that fear with a tiny bit of hope so that they do not revolt again:  if they can believe that there is hope for a slightly better life while keeping the status quo, then they will strive to stay in line.  But the hope must be managed so that the hope does not liberate people from submission to the Capitol. 

We could easily live lives of fear when hearing Jesus’ words today about the Second Coming.  We could worry about natural disasters, about violence, and about destruction.  We could hear Jesus’ words about being on guard, being alert at all times, and standing up to raise our heads, and be worried about the burden of constant vigilance.  But Jesus is not trying to scare us into preparation.  Jesus does not want us to live in fear.[ii]  Quite the opposite, Jesus wants to give us a big dose of hope today.  Unlike President Snow, Jesus does not manipulate us by only giving us a small amount of hope.  Though today’s text can feel full of gloom, Jesus, in his weird Jesus way, is actually trying to give a large dose of hope today.  Instead of asking us to cower in fearful anticipation, he is inviting us to stand tall, raise our heads in certainty, and be people of sober, joyful expectation.

In our collect today, we prayed these words, “…give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light…”[iii]  Many of us may question whether we can put on an armor of light in such a despairing world.  Perhaps we worry about being insensitive to the suffering of the world and our communities or maybe we are having a hard time seeing light at all.  But putting on the armor of light is not putting on the armor of denial or dismissiveness.  Putting on the armor of light is an act of seeing and experiencing the deep groaning of our time and proclaiming that God works as an agent of light despite what feels like overwhelming darkness.  By putting on our armor of light, we are acknowledging that “God in Christ is coming because God loves us – because God wants to redeem us.”[iv]  Putting on the armor of light means that despite all that is falling apart in our lives, our communities, and the world around us, we claim hope over despair. 

Now some of us may think that putting on armor is preparing us for battle – that we are going to be dressed for a fight.  But the armor of light is a bit different.  The armor of light requires us to stand tall as beacons of light in the world – much like the lighthouses that line our eastern shores.  Now, I do not mean putting on that armor is a passive act.  In fact, as N.T. Wright explains, our armor is not for an “exciting battle, with adrenalin flowing and banners flying, but the steady tread, of prayer and hope and scripture and sacrament and witness, day by day and week by week.”[v]  Knowing that we are slowly, steadily treading toward Jesus’ return, we need that armor of light more than ever:  to protect us from allowing fear to overcome us, and to remind ourselves of how we are grounded in liberating hope. 

And just in case you are not convinced that you can survive a long, steady tread, the community of faith gathers here every week to witness and wear that armor of light with you.  We are like those freedom fighters from the Civil Rights movement, who steadily marched – from Selma to Montgomery, through the streets of Washington, D.C., and anywhere else where fear was reigning.  Their power was in their numbers, their fortitude, and their hope.  They wore the same armor that we don today.  Yes, we will get to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child soon enough.  But before he comes, when he comes, and after he comes, we will still need to stand up, raise our heads, and be agents of light and hope.  The world needs our light – and so do we.  Amen.

[i] Mariam J. Kamell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 21.

[ii] David Lose, “Advent 1 C: Stand Up and Raise Your Heads!” November 23, 2015, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/11/advent-1-c-stand-up-and-raise-your-heads/ on November 29, 2024.

[iii] BCP, 211.

[iv] Kathy Beach-Verhey, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 25.

[v] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 260.

On Actively Remembering…

11 Wednesday Sep 2024

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Photo credit: https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/wars-conflicts-and-operations/sept-11-attack.html

The anniversary of September 11, 2001 is always one that hits me in unexpected ways.  For those of us living at the time twenty-three years ago, our experiences that day are as varied as our humanity is varied.  Depending on how close you lived to the three crash sites, whether you lost a loved one or waited long days for them to be found, what your ethnicity is (as those of Middle Eastern heritage had very different experiences that day and in the weeks and months to follow), or what your philosophy of justice was, our reactions to, experiences of, and the aftermath of that tragic day affects us all differently.

Despite those deeply varying differences, one thing always seems to be consistent on this anniversary – we remember.  Maybe we spend time in prayer, or maybe we dedicate some time to silence, or maybe we take a long run, or maybe we burn off steam another way, but all of us in some way or fashion remember.  As you remember this year, I invite your reflection to be active.  There were countless people on that day who did something good for someone else – whether they helped someone out of a burning building, comforted a friend, searched through rubble, helped a stranger search for someone lost, made a meal for someone, or even made the ultimate sacrifice so that others might live.  Use those stories and those memories of goodness that punctuated a day of awfulness to be a force for goodness today – to be an agent of Christ’s love in a world that desperately needs love.  If you’re looking for motivation, you can find stories here.  If you’re looking for a prayer, you can try this resource. 

Even twenty-three years out, this day carries with it so much weight.  I can’t wait to hear what you do to lighten some of that burden for someone else or yourself.  Today we can be a part of shining Christ’s light in the darkness in our time.

On Loss and Light…

20 Wednesday Sep 2023

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Photo credit: https://pixy.org/361878/

There’s an old adage, at least among clergy, that deaths often come in threes.  As clergy, we are accustomed to walking a community through the death of a loved one.  In death, time sort of stands still, as being present with the grieving, and preparing for funerals takes precedence over all other work that was formerly deemed urgent.  If a second death happens, clergy get a little skittish because of that old adage about threes.  So, death can not only upend a week or two, it can last for weeks on end. 

But recently, I have begun to wonder if subscribing to that adage about threes clouds our vision about what else is happening.  I have had the experience of sitting with someone in the hospital who was approaching death, only to hear over the hospital PA system the tinkling sound that marks the birth of a new baby.  I have had the experience of within twenty-four hours receiving four texts:  one about the death of a friend’s mom, followed by one about a clean bill of health after cancer treatment; another one about a death in the parish, followed by one about the birth of a grandchild.  When we only see deaths in threes, we seem to lose sight of the incidents of life all around us. 

I do not mean to minimize the experience of death – each one is unique and needs time to go through the full cycle of grief.  But I have been wondering if in those darkest moments – whether in death, divorce, or the loss of a job – there isn’t lightness breaking in too.  That tinkling sound announcing a birth did not negate the end of life walk of my parishioner.  But as we made eye contact, that tinkling did help us remember all the moments of life that parishioner had experienced before those last days. 

I do not know what you are going through today:  what losses you may be grieving or what deaths are hanging over you like a cloud.  But as a people of resurrection, I suspect there is life surrounding you too – maybe as quietly as a tinkling, or maybe as loud as a toddler who has found her words.  My prayer for you today is that whatever pain you are experiencing in death today, you might be gifted with eyes to see the blessing of God’s light and life.   

Sermon – Gen., Ex., Ez., Zeph., Mt. 28.1-10, EV, YA, April 8, 2023

30 Tuesday May 2023

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If you have ever longed for a way to explain or express your faith to someone or even to yourself, this night, Easter Vigil, is the best articulation or encapsulation of our faith.  If ever you were hoping to showcase to a friend the best example of Church, this is the night in which the Church is at the Church’s fullest.  This night has everything – the drama of the Pascal fire and candle, the haunting beauty of the Exsultet, the narration of our salvation history, Baptism and Eucharist, and all the joy that comes with Easter.  After this night, the rest of our Easter celebrations pale in comparison.  This is the night. 

The challenge of Easter for us is that not only are we quick to forget the darkness of the past week, but also we are tempted to only celebrate what God has done in Jesus Christ, and not celebrate how extraordinary what God has done in Jesus Christ is in light of what God has done throughout all time.  Easter Vigil pulls us out of that desire to be narrowly focused and thrusts us back into the full story that is our story – the story that makes Jesus’ resurrection all the more powerful.  Easter Vigil gives us the opportunity to step out of the empty tomb, and to immediately recall all the other things that God has done for us – the ways that God has repeatedly delivered us – and to understand at a much deeper level the significance of this night.

Tonight, we hear five of the nine possible readings we could have read which narrate our salvation history.  First, we hear the creation story – that story wherein God takes a watery chaos and creates the earth and all that is in the earth:  the lights, the waters, the birds, the animals, the ground and vegetation, humanity, and Sabbath.  We hear again and again how God creates and how that creation is good.  We hear in this first reading the tender lovingkindness of God, the abundance of creation, and the glory of God.  Second, we hear the dramatic story of the flood, where our sinfulness drives God to flood the earth.  But the flood story is also a story of God’s mercy – a God who loves so much that God cannot totally annihilate God’s creation.  After the flood, God promises to never again harm creation so deeply.  Then we hear the Exodus story – that story where God takes God’s people out of slavery, frees them from Egypt, and guides them through the Red Sea to the final destruction of pharaoh’s army.  Despite the people’s groaning, their illogical desire to return to slavery rather than to trust in the Lord, and the people’s unworthiness of such grace, God saves the people, delivering them from bondage and death.  Next, we hear that haunting story from Ezekiel, where the prophet breathes breath back into a valley full of dry bones – the dry bones of the people Israel, symbolizing God’s restoration of Israel.  Finally, finally, we hear the Zephaniah story of the gathering of God’s people back together from exile – that story in which God promises to return God’s people to the Promised Land, to deliver them from their suffering at the hands of oppressors, and to restore their fortunes.  As an exiled people, who quite frankly deserved the loss of their land because of the ways they deserted God, this promise of being regathered is more than they could ever hope for or imagine.

In light of this salvation history – this snapshot way of showing how lovingly God creates us, how lovingly God forgives us, and how lovingly God returns to us time and again, despite our grievous sins – we then turn to Jesus’ story.  We see that as God’s people we have benefited from the many times that God has delivered us from oppression and suffering caused by our sinfulness; but in this final act by God, the giving of God’s Son Jesus Christ to suffering, persecution, and death, we see that Jesus’ resurrection means that we not only have a God that delivers us from the bondage of death in this world, but also we have a God that delivers us from bondage of death in the life to come.  Instead of taking away one more earthly oppressor, God takes away the oppressor of death – granting us forgiveness of our sins and eternal life.  This narrative, the story of the empty tomb is the last stop in that salvation narrative for us. 

This is the night – when we remember what God does for us at the Red Sea.  This is the night – when we recall that Christ died for our sins.  This is the night – when we proclaim that Christ has broken the bonds of death and given us eternal life.  And we remember all of that this night through our actions – the lighting of the Pascal candle, the reaffirmation of our baptismal covenant, and the receiving of bread and wine.  We hear the word of God, and we respond to the word of God through our liturgical actions. 

And so what does God call us to do in light of this night?  Rejoice now!  The whole earth – that earth that God created – rejoices because darkness is vanquished through Jesus Christ.  The heavenly chorus rejoices – shouting for the salvation fulfilled and completed in Christ the King.  The Church rejoices – we resound as a people, being glad for all that God does for us through Jesus Christ.  Like our ancestor the prophet Miriam who led the women in dancing and song, we too are bursting with praise and thanksgiving.  We praise God in song, prayer, and proclamation because we are so overwhelmed with the abundance of God’s love and grace for us.  We rejoice now, because like the Israelites on the other side of the Sea, we are awed by God, and can only offer our adoration.  We have no way of paying God back or thanking God enough.  And so, with great adoration and awe, we rejoice now.  And we leave this place, bursting with joy as we share the salvation story of all that God has done for us.  Rejoice now, Mother Church!  Alleluia!  Alleluia! 

Sermon – Mt. 21.1-11, 26.14-27.66, PS, YA, April 2, 2023

30 Tuesday May 2023

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This Lent, our ecumenical brothers and sisters from Upper James City County gathered for worship every Wednesday night, slowly walking through Matthew’s Palm and Passion Narrative – in fact, our last gathering will be this Wednesday at Hickory Neck.  The idea of walking slowly through the Passion was most of us have to navigate Palm Sunday in ways that do not do the massive amounts of scripture justice:  some of us only read the Palm narrative, saving the passion for Good Friday; some of us only read the portion of the Passion narrative that includes Jesus’ trial before Pilate through crucifixion; and the crazy Episcopalians read both the Palm and Passion narratives like a fire hose, overwhelming us with “Hosannas!” and heartache[i] all in one breath.  When we started Lent, I thought reading these narratives in seven segments, with a sermon for each one would make them more digestible – make me feel like I could contain their grief and shame in small portions.  But even as each sermon mingled sin and grace, sorrow and comfort, heartaches and hosannas, I still felt overwhelmed by enormity of the story – perhaps even more overwhelmed than when we just take the texts all at once, like chugging down bad-tasting medicine.

I have been thinking about contrasts of this day – the high of waving palms and proudly welcoming our king, to the low of betrayal, denial, and complicity in Jesus’ death – and I realized what makes me the most uncomfortable with the contrasts of this day is that how similar this day is to every day we live.  We watch in horror as tornados lay waste to homes, praying for the victims, while not acknowledging or doing anything about the fact that those who will likely suffer the most are the poor, who can only afford land in the most tornado-prone locations and whose homes are the least safely constructed because that is all they can afford.  Or we make supportive posts on social media about International Transgender Day of Visibility, and yet we do not work with our legislature, schools, and workplaces to ensure the transgendered children of God’s legal and physical safety.  Or we read about another mass school shooting in Kentucky – one that includes the life of a nine-year old daughter of a pastor – one that is just the latest in a list of school shootings so long you’ll spend minutes scrolling the list – and then go about our lives not doing anything to change things, just praying that hopefully that won’t happen to this pastor’s nine-year old daughter.  And all those events happened in just this past week.

Palm Sunday feels like whiplash – a contrast in hosannas and heartache.  But what makes that whiplash so unsettling is that we live that whiplash every single day.  And what makes that whiplash even more painful today is we do not get to point our fingers at others, shaking our heads in a high-and-mighty fashion.  No, those who wave palms on Sunday and call for crucifixion on Friday are each of us.  No, Judas’s betrayal and Peter’s denial are ours.  No, Pilate’s weaseling, ignoring of warnings from his wife, and his attempt to clean his hand is ours.  No, the faithful who plot against Jesus and demand Jesus Barrabus over Jesus the Messiah are us.  All the work we have done this Lent – from the Great Litany, to our penitential order, to songs of our sinfulness – all of that work gets relived today, and we experience viscerally what our sinfulness does – our sinfulness leads to the degradation and death of Jesus, the conscription of each of us into denying goodness, the witnessing to our children of what failing to be faithful means.

So how in the world do we leave this place today with even an ounce of hope?  How do we look our failings in the eye, at how very low we have sunk, both in Jesus’ day and in our own day, and walk out of here renewed for hosannas?  Well, as the great theologian Mr. Fred Rogers would say, “Look for the helpers.”  Mr. Rogers always said when something is scary, or frightening, or full of tragedy, looking for the helpers can give us hope.[ii]  And believe Mr. Rogers or not, there are helpers in our text today.  The crowds are helpers to Jesus in the Palm narrative as they proclaim his identity with joy and vigor.  Judas becomes a helper as he returns his silver pieces that are used to create a burial place for foreigners.  Pilate’s wife, a foreigner and uninterested party, becomes a helper when her dream warns her about Jesus.  When forced to carry a cross, Simone of Cyrene becomes a helper.  A centurion becomes a helper when he, despite being a part of the crucifixion, also admits Jesus’ divinity.  Joseph of Arimathea becomes a helper when he boldly asks for Jesus’ body and buried Jesus.  The Marys and mothers become helpers as they keep watch and guard over Jesus, witnessing their devotion and commitment to Jesus.

For all the devastating failings of humankind, even in the darkness of this massive amount of text, there are still hosanas to be found among the heartache.  Our invitation this week, as we continue to journey through lightness and dark, is to not just look for the helpers, but to become helpers outside these walls.  Our lives do not stop resembling the chaos of hosannas and heartache today.  But we can be helpers who shine light in the darkness, who bring hosannas to the table.  Witnesses found their way on this darkest of days many years ago.  Now, our turn to shine light begins.  Amen. 

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Dear Working Preacher:  Hosanna and Heartache,” March 26, 2023, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/hosanna-and-heartache on April 1, 2023.

[ii] Fred Rogers, “Fred Rogers:  Look for the Helpers,” posted by Alex Forsythe, excerpted from Television Academy Foundation’s interview, as found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LGHtc_D328 on April 1, 2023.

Sermon – Matthew 27.1-23, Ecumenical Lenten Series, March 15, 2023

29 Monday May 2023

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When the clergy of our Ministerium gathered and decided to slowly walk through the passion narrative, a narrative that most of us normally consume in one service – either on Palm Sunday or Good Friday – I thought it would be great fun to dive deeply into the text, tarrying longer on the parts that seem to whizz by otherwise.  I was excited to find hidden gems, or maybe moments of grace and goodness.  But I confess, so far, the deep dive has been harder than I imagined.  I have begun to wonder if we churches do not read the entire passion narrative in one sitting because we know how hard the text is:  so we read the text in its fullness, like chugging awful tasting medicine in the hopes of getting the foul experience over with as quickly as possible.

Of course, when I started reading our portion of the text for this evening, I thought maybe there was hope after all.  The text starts off with such promise.  The very first words from the New Revised Standard Version are, “When morning came…” or, even more promising, in the paraphrase from The Message, “In the first light of dawn…”  Immediately, my mind filled with the words from that old hymn, “Morning has broken,” with lyrics like, “Praise for the morning!… Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden… Praise with elation, praise every morning, God’s recreation of the new day!”  Surely the inbreaking of light will mean the inbreaking of hope and renewal.  Those things that happened in the cover of darkness:  Judas’ betrayal, disciples unable to keep watch and pray with Jesus, disciples scattering as Jesus is arrested, false testimonies, and finally, the gut-wrenching betrayal of faithful Peter – surely in the first light of dawn, in the sweetness of the wet garden, the light will drive away the darkness.

But the morning light of this text does not overcome this day – at least not in the ways the light comes Easter morning.  First, we have to walk through the darkness and light of Jesus’ final day.  We start with Judas.  What feels like redemption is coming for Judas.  The NRSV says Judas repented, but this is not the same word used to describe what Peter does.  Matthew is quite careful not to use the same word in the original Greek for repentance.  Instead of the word for “repent” or “turn around,” the word in Greek for Judas means “regret or “change one’s mind.”[i]  Somehow, Judas’ actions happening in the first light of dawn makes them more devastating.  His hanging himself brings up for us all sorts of feelings, and quite frankly, some of the Church’s more damaging teachings about suicide.  But in Judas, darkness and light get muddled.  Theologian Stanley Hauerwas argues, “What Judas did is not beyond the forgiveness enacted in Jesus’s crucifixion.  Indeed, Judas’s betrayal can be remembered because it is not and cannot be the last word about Judas’s life or our own.  The last word about Judas or us is not ours to determine because the last word has been said in the crucifixion.  The challenge is not whether Jesus’s forgiveness is good, but whether any of us, Judas included, are capable of facing as well as acknowledging that, given the opportunity, we would be willing to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.”[ii]

In the light of day, as the morning comes, the text seems to tell us that the darkness of night might be dispelled after all.  Pilate’s wife appears in the midst of Jesus’ trial – something that no other gospel describes – and tells of how Pilate should have nothing to do with Jesus.  She, like so many others has been warned in a dream:  the magi early on in Matthew, Joseph, Jesus’ father, and now Pilate’s wife.  In all these cases, while people scheme to destroy Jesus, even Gentiles receive communication from God in dreams to preserve Jesus’ life.[iii]  But today is not a day of Easter light – or a day of near misses like in Jesus’ birth.  Instead, the darkness overcomes.  Even though Pilate knows Jesus is innocent, he cannot muster the political strength to follow what he knows is right.  And so, Pilate, whose name in own creeds remind us that Jesus was killed in a specific time and space, becomes complicit with the darkness even as the light of morning tries to break through.

The final mingling of darkness and light comes as the crowds get swept into the guilt of this day.  Pilate cleverly offers the faithful an alternative – to release Jesus the Messiah or to release Jesus Barrabus, the murderous rebel.  Caught up in the fervor stoked in the darkness, the people’s demand of Barabbas’ release feels like all the light goes out of the story.  Those words, “Let him be crucified,” feels like the shroud of darkness and our human failure is complete.  But even in this darkest moment, all light is not lost.  What we forget in this moment is that when Jesus dies, Barabbas goes free.  Scholar N.T. Wright tells us, “Barabbas represents all of us.  When Jesus dies, the brigand goes free, the sinners go free, we all go free.  That, after all, is what a Passover story ought to be about.”[iv]

We will not get the brilliance of that old hymn, Morning Has Broken, until Easter.  God’s recreation cannot happen until the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Famed preacher Thomas Long tells a story about a congregation who many years ago built a small and secluded chapel for prayer and meditation.  Inside that little chapel, they placed twelve wooden chairs, each inscribed with the name of one of the disciples.  You want to know which of the chairs is the most heavily worn from use?  Judas’ chair, like stone step that shows its overuse, is the most worn, the most relatable, perhaps the most hopeful for visitors to that old chapel.[v] 

We are not at Easter in this Lenten journey.  In fact, most of our days even outside of this ritual time feel closer to the darkness of Lent than the lightness of Eastertide.  But that does not mean that all our days do not have glimpses of light.  Even on this darkest day, when Jesus’ fate is sealed and the worst thing will happen, light keeps fighting through.  Whether in Judas’ remorse, whether in the witness of outsiders around us, or whether in the grace given to those who do not deserve grace, even on this darkest of days, the morning comes. 

Our invitation this Lent is to open our eyes to the light.  Judas, Pilate’s wife, even Barrabas invite us to seek the light, to name the light, to be the light.  We will never master the perfection of Easter Sunday where the sweetness of the wet garden makes us praise with elation.  So maybe our song this night is not Morning has Broken, but another gospel hymn, Walk in the Light.  When the darkness threatens to overcome, we raise our voice, “Walk in the light, Beautiful light, Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright, Shine all around us by day and by night, Jesus is the light of the world.”  Jesus is here, in our sinfulness, in our resistance, in our hardheartedness, giving us beams of light to walk in – beautiful light where mercy shines bright.  We can walk in the light together because Jesus is that light.  Amen.

[i] Douglas R.A. Hare, Matthew, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1993), 314.

[ii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 230-231.

[iii] Thomas G. Long, Matthew:  Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 312.

[iv] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 178.

[v] Long, 310.

Sermon – Isaiah 58.9b-14, P16, YC, August 21, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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Last night, we baptized Becky Breshears in the waters of the Chickahominy River.  When most of us think of baptism, we imagine the baptism of an infant or child, someone for whom godparents make promises to raise in the life of the faith, much like we did with baby Olivia a few weeks ago.  The sacrament of baptism for a child is certainly considered being fully initiated into the family of Christ, but we make pronouncements and promises on behalf of the baptized.  And as the baptized grows up, we continue to shepherd and guide her, answer her questions, and help her claim her faith as her own.  There is an endearing, almost romantic, notion to baptism, full of idealism and hope. 

At least, that seems to be true in Episcopal Churches, where we quite primly and gently pour water from beautiful fonts over the heads of babies – the messiest part being if the water accidently runs into the baby’s eyes.  Of course, adult baptism is totally normal in our tradition too, we just do not do adult baptism as frequently.  When we do adult baptism, we become much more like other denominations, who have always understood baptism to be a mature proclamation of one’s own faith.  In some ways an adult baptism is more exciting because an adult baptism is not about something we hope and pray will develop into a faithful life, but adult baptism is the fully developed proclamation now – a set of pronouncements and promises on one’s own behalf.  An adult baptism is bold, dramatic, and, especially in instances like last night, much messier!

But adult baptism, especially in the Episcopal Church, are not about proclaiming one has her faith life all figured out – that she has some sense of earned clarity and certainty that has led her to baptism, as if baptism is the end of a journey of discernment.  Quite the opposite; baptism is a beginning for Episcopalians.  The baptized does not proclaim she knows all there is to know about faith and salvation.  Instead, the baptized claims that she is starting a new journey with Jesus, with a community of faith who walks with her.  And part of the act of baptism is giving the newly baptized tools to walk that journey.

That’s why I love the lesson from Isaiah today.  Instead of scripture capturing a moment (like a baptism), scripture today tells us what the baptized journey will be like.  Isaiah describes five things that are critical to the life of baptism.  First, the faithful will “remove the yoke from among you” – or in modern language, be an agent of economic liberation for the oppressed, not taking advantage of others.  Second, the faithful will refrain from “pointing the finger,” or take responsibility for one’s own actions, not accusing others but acting to change the self.  Third, the faithful will “refrain from speaking evil,” because “speech, when it is careless or deceitful, can be destructive and injurious.”[i]  Our words have power and are to be used for good.  Fourth, the faithful are to “offer food to the hungry.”  The life of the faithful is a life of self-sacrifice and sharing what we have learned to call our own.  And finally, we are to “satisfy the needs of the afflicted” – not just helping others or solving their problems but letting the disadvantaged “define their own needs and letting them set the criteria for deciding whether our help is effective.”[ii]

What the prophet Isaiah tells us is that as the faithful, we structure our lives differently than the secular, self-interested world might have us live.  That includes honoring even the sabbath – this holy day, not as just a day to go to church (though I hope you all will regularly – either in person or online), but also to be a day of honoring God through letting go of the self and focusing on the Lord and on the cares of those in need.   That’s why in our gospel lesson Jesus’ actions of healing others on the sabbath is so controversial – because Jesus reminds us the sabbath is a day of selflessness, healing, and giving glory to God.

Last night, Becky committed herself to that life, and we, as fellow baptized recommit ourselves this very day, to a life lived differently – a life lived in the light of Christ.  The prophet Isaiah tells us that when we live faithful lives, our light shall rise in the darkness, the Lord will guide us continually, will satisfy our needs in parched places, make our bones strong, and we shall be like a watered garden – a spring – whose waters never fail.  We shall be repairers of the breach, restorers of the streets to live in. 

Earlier I used the language of self-sacrifice.  What the Holy Spirit does in baptism and what the Church tries to continue to do on every sabbath is relocate the self from the center of our universe and place us firmly within a community of faith who cares for one another while placing God in the center of our universe.  When we take that step in baptism or renew the step our parents took for us, and in gathering in weekly worship (whether gathering in person or gathering virtually), we commit not to having this faith thing figured out – but just that we want to live a life where our parched places are always quenched through the living waters of baptism, and where our lives become bigger than they have ever been – where our lives shine the light of Christ in the darkness.  Amen.

[i] Jon L. Berquist, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3, Supplement for P16 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 4.

[ii] Berquist, 4.

Sermon – Isaiah 60.1-6, Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YC, January 9, 2022

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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About a month ago, we were gathered for Youth Group, and the activity was assigning parts for the Epiphany pageant.  When we started, no one was particularly excited about the exercise, many committing to reading the parts for the night but not necessarily to performing the parts at church.  By the time we were done, youth were repeatedly asking when they should plan to be in church for the pageant, where they would get costumes, and when to schedule the dress rehearsal so they could coordinate the rehearsal with their other sports practices and commitments.  Their sparks of enthusiasm release a glint of hope in me:  maybe, after almost two years, with vaccinations for kids 5 and up, and with masking, maybe we would be able to finally have our beloved Epiphany Pageant.  And over the Christmas season, hope bloomed in my heart.

And then, five days ago, everything came apart at the seams.  We moved not along a spectrum of restrictive options, but completely shut down gathered worship altogether.  And although we have survived shutdowns before – even thrived in them – this one, on the Feast of Epiphany, is hard.  A day that is designated for the last of our Christmas celebrations instead feels like a day to recognize we are not yet done with this pandemic.  Instead of marveling at gifts and epiphanies, we feel like we are sitting in ashes.

I think that is why, even though we are celebrating the epiphany that occurs when the magi arrive in Matthew’s gospel, I am instead drawn to our lesson from Isaiah.  To understand why, we need to remember the context of this Isaiah lesson.  The lesson is a lesson proclaiming the favor of Jerusalem.  The lesson claims that although darkness covers the earth, nations shall come to Jerusalem, bearing gifts, and wealth, and abundance.  Maybe none of that sounds too remarkable – Jerusalem has always been the favored city of God.  But here’s what we might not realize about this passage of favor and blessing.  This passage is written to the exiles from Judah as they wait in Babylon.  As one scholar explains, “In the middle of the sixth century before Christ, things seem as dark as they have ever been, with little left to sustain the hopes of the Judeans.  They are exiled from their land; the temple has been destroyed; and the dynasty of David has come to disastrous end.” But, Isaiah says, “…the poverty and shame of exile will be overcome when all the wealth of the world pours into Zion and the city of exiles becomes a light to the nations.  Isaiah bids the people, ‘Arise, shine; for your light has come.’” [i]

We know all too well the darkness of exile.  If anything, this pandemic has been an exile of sorts – an exile from the physical plant of our church, an exile from family and friends, an exile from a way of life we probably never fully appreciated.  Into this darkness, Isaiah dares speak to the people a word of light:  not just the promise of the presence of light, but an instruction to be light.  “Arise, shine,” Isaiah says.  “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.  Lift up your eyes and look around; they all gather together, they come to you…you shall see and be radiant.”[ii] 

On this feast of the Epiphany, the first revelation of God to the Gentiles (the Gentiles being those magi that come from another land to see the Christ Child), we do not get to watch our children reenact the epiphanous moments of Christ’s birth narratives.  But maybe this year that is okay.  Because the story of the magi is not a story about sitting back and watching.  The story of the magi, as Isaiah reminds us, is not about observation but about participation.  This year, the question to us is not just how the magi or the exiles of Judah are epiphanies, but as Karoline Lewis asks, “how are we epiphanies of God’s glory?”[iii] 

When Isaiah says, “Arise, shine…be radiant,” our question and invitation is to consider how we can be radiant epiphanies of God’s glory in a time of darkness for our communities.  We mourn the lack of our youth and our children not being here to lead us in a pageant not because they are endearing, but because they model for us what embodying God’s light means.  The pageant is a physical reminder of the embodiment of faith we are invited into every day.  And without the pageant today, we lean into Isaiah who does not give us a free pass.  Even as we gather across the internet, we are invited to be light, to shine, to be radiant in the communities around us: to our families who maybe we’re a little tired of spending time with, to our neighbors who despite proximity may feel deeply alone, and to the weary world around us who needs Christ’s light more than ever.  And Isaiah reminds us we do not have to make light – the glory of the Lord has risen upon us already.  Our invitation is to not cover the light, but to let God’s light shine through us – to be radiant for others.  Maybe as nations come to our light, we might be able to lift up our eyes and look around and see the radiance they see in us.  Arise, my loves.  Shine.  For your light has come.  Amen.

[i] Kendra G. Hotz, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 196.

[ii] Isaiah 60.1, 3-5.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Sermon Brainwave #822:  Epiphany of Our Lord – January 6, 2022,” January 3, 2022, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/822-day-of-epiphany-jan-6-2022 on January 8, 2022.