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Sermon – I Timothy 6.6-19, Luke 16.19-31, P21, YC, September 28, 2025

01 Wednesday Oct 2025

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Parenting is probably the most difficult of the vocations God has given me – not simply because parenting can be physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausting, or because of the heftiness of the responsibility of shaping decent human beings who will have an impact on the world, or because parenting forces you to justify every belief and value you hold.  Those alone would be daunting enough.  But parenting is also a difficult vocation because of the way parenting evolves:  from those early days of helping this creature learn the basics for survival, to those young days of helping children wonder and ask the big questions of life, to those middle days of clarifying family, faith, and individual values that will guide their behavior and choices, to those later days of gently reflecting on those ultimate things of life – of what really makes for a life of meaning and purpose.

In many ways, our scripture lessons lately have felt like listening to a parent trying to help us figure out what this whole life thing is all about.  On the surface, our lessons today are straight of central casting for a stewardship talk – we’ve really teed up the parishioner who will share his testimony today with everything he needs.  From Amos who foreshadows what will happen to those who spend their lives luxuriating in lavishness, as if luxuriating is an end in and of itself; to Paul’s letter to Timothy who warns how dangerous a love of money can be, distracting us from things of ultimate significance; to our gospel lesson which starkly depicts the eternal significance of how wealth can make us so blind to the needs of others that we condemn ourselves in the life beyond this life.  The lessons this week seem to serve up the ultimate stewardship sermon:  the place of money in our lives is so fraught with spiritual consequences, you should just give that money to the church so that you do not have to worry about a fate like those in our lessons today!

And while our budget for next year might appreciate such a lesson, much like parenting has varied phases, so does the church’s teaching of us.  The one line of all the weighty lessons on wealth from today that has been hovering in my mind comes from Paul’s first letter to Timothy.  In the last line of the portion of his letter we heard today, Paul says we “are to do good, to be rich in good works, generous, and ready to share, thus storing up for [ourselves] the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that [we] may take hold of the life that really is life.”  So that we may take hold of the life that really is life.  The verb in the Greek translated as “take hold” is a not a gentle verb – taking hold is better translated as to grasp desperately.[i]  So we are to grasp desperately to the life that really is life. 

This is the phase of parenting where I find myself:  how do I teach my children what the “life that really is life” is?  In a world that very much feels like the passage from Amos, telling us that “life that really is life” is a life so comfortable you can set your goal as luxuriating in peace, or in a world that so values individualism that we are trained not to let our gaze linger on people like Lazarus or to even know their name for that matter, or in a world that seems to jump from one political controversy to the next, destabilizing our moral compass, how are we supposed to even know what the life that really is life is?

Award winning journalist Amy Frykholm, inspired by that simple phrase “the life that really is life,” traveled to a tiny city in southern Mexico, Fortín de las Flores, after reading Sonia Nazario’s book Enrique’s Journey.  The book details the story of a Honduran man trying to make his way into the United States by traveling on top of a freight train.  His story is not all that unique – the 20,000 residents of Fortín see people like him all the time.  What is unusual about Fortín is how they respond to these migrants.  Instead of responding with fear, or with self-protection, or even with a blind eye, the people of Fortín act as a place of mercy.  Actively making their way to the trains to deliver food, water, and supplies every day – food left over from their food trucks which are just barely making enough for their own families to survive, water poured into zipped baggies they can toss them to the tops of trains, and even sweatshirts or winter hats because they know that after the stop in Fortín, the migrants will face the brutal cold of a trip through mountains.  When journalist Frykholm asked them why they cared for these strangers, most of the residents just looked at her like she was asking a silly question.  A resident of Fortín who had lived in the United States understood her confusion.  He said, “‘The central value of this society is compartir,’ [the Spanish word for “sympathize”] …as he carried a bag of oranges toward a train that had briefly stopped not far from the hotel.  ‘Even a business is primarily a place from which to share.’”[ii] 

The wealth the rich man has in our gospel lesson is not bad in and of itself.  The wealthy man is not even an evil man – he does not actively do anything bad to people like Lazarus.  The danger in the wealthy man’s life is how he does not see,[iii] how he presumes his wealth is simply a blessing for him to enjoy from God.  Debie Thomas writes, “It has taken me a long time to recognize how insidious this notion of ‘blessing’ really is.  How contrary [the notion of blessing] is to Jesus’s teachings.  When I was growing up, no one ever told me that by locking human suffering out, I was locking myself in.  Locking myself into a life of superficiality, thin piety, and meaninglessness.  As our reading from [Paul’s letter to Timothy] puts it this week, the refusal to confront my own privilege, the refusal to bear the burdens of those who have less than me, is a refusal ‘to take hold of the life that really is life.’”[iv]

That is our invitation today – to desperately grasp on to the life that really is life.  Fortunately, scripture does not give us this hefty command like a parent sending out their grown child with one last bit of advice.  Paul wrote this letter not just to Timothy but to the community of faith.  Paul wrote this letter to the community of faith because Paul knew they could not grasp desperately to the life that really is life without some companions on the journey – without a village of people whose central value is compartir.  We gather with people every week because we need a community who can hold us accountable to our values and who can challenge us when loose track of what a life that really is life is.  Sometimes the community will do that by looking at us like we are asking a silly question; sometimes the community will do that by inviting us to be generous givers; and sometimes the community will do that by sitting us down to open up wisdom for us.  But mostly, the community will partner with us because each one of us is desperately trying to grasp onto that life that really is life too.  Together, we create our own little Fortín right here in Toano, witnessing with simplicity the life that really is life – together.  Amen.

[i] Stephanie Mar Smith, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2010), 110.

[ii] Amy Frykholm, “Life That Really Is Life,” September 21, 2025, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/3969-life-that-really-is-life on September 26, 2025

[iii] Charles B. Cousar, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2010), 119.

[iv] Debie Thomas, “The Great Chasm,” September 22, 2019, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2374-the-great-chasm on September 26, 2025.

On Leaks and Parishes…

31 Thursday Jul 2025

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Photo credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly. Reuse with permission only.

Last week at our church we discovered a leak in our parish house that necessitated saws, hammers, and very loud industrial fans.  By Friday, the constant noise broke my patience and I decided I needed to find an alternate place to work remotely – maybe not a place of silence, but certainly a change of scenery.  I landed in two different eateries/coffeehouses and decided to publicize my “remote office.”

What I found was people visiting from out-of-town I did not know were here, parishioners running errands, happy for an open ear, and lots of gratitude for being invited into the shared experience – both from church members and non-members alike.  The experience reminded me why Episcopal Churches are often referred to as “parishes.” Once upon a time, Episcopal churches served a geographic region, or a parish, and the priest was sort of the neighborhood priest.  Doing my work and meeting people where they are – whether they are from my actual church or not, reminded me of the original intention or churches:  that their priests were for the good of the entire community, not just the members.

Archbishop William Temple is attributed with having once said, “The Church is the only institution that exists primarily for the benefit of those who are not its members.”  At our church, we often talk about our mission being simultaneously about those inside our walls and those outside our walls.  That’s why we are doing some big things of late:  developing a third worship service designed specifically for people who are not a part of our community; forming a team who will look at alternative uses of our property that are missional and community-facing; and establishing small groups for spiritual formation that meet off campus – in homes and places of everyday “parish” life.  If we truly believe Archbishop Temple, then our clergy sitting in coffeehouses and eateries should more often be the norm than the crisis-driven exception.

Being out in the “parish” is not just the role of the priest.  I wonder how you are taking your faith, your worship community, your church out into the world.  When was the last time you asked a friend about their spiritual health (in the same way you would ask them about their physical or emotional health)?  When was the last time you were listening deeply to another person’s story and were willing to offer where you saw God in their story?  When was the last time you invited someone to church – not necessarily to the building on Sunday at a certain time, but into the experience of “church” that has been so transformative for you?  I cannot wait to hear about how you can envision taking your church out into the parish!

Sermon – Luke 10.1-11, 16-20, P9, YC, July 6, 2025

24 Thursday Jul 2025

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This past week has been a jumbly mess of feelings around my identity as an American Christian.  I probably could have buried my head in the sand about most of the mess and just ate my hamburger and watched the fireworks and called it a day.  But I happen to have an eleven-year-old in my house who asks lots of questions, officially making head-in-the-sand living virtually impossible.  Instead, we spent time in conversation about the intersection of politics and Christian ethics in the caring for the poor and sick and the responsibilities of those with wealth.  Later, we had to talk about my discomfort with the man on his loudspeaker preaching salvation to Colonial Williamsburg visitors – that not all followers of Jesus believe the same things.  Our conversations reminded me that knowing in my head that not all Christian values being publicly proclaimed are my Christian values, and having actual conversations with others about that difference are two very different things.

I think that is why today’s gospel lesson is so unnerving.  By chapter ten of Luke’s gospel, Jesus has already sent out the twelve on an evangelism mission.  Today, we pick up where Jesus commissions seventy to do the same.  In other words, this is when being followers of Jesus starts getting real.  Jesus does not sugarcoat the mission or even make an appealing pitch.  First Jesus tells them that the “harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”  So basically, there is so much work to be done that the seventy are going to be overworked and overstressed.  Next Jesus tells them, “I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.”  I imagine the seventy begin to panic with questions about who these wolves are and whether their own lives are at stake.  Then Jesus tells them, “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road,” explaining they are to be dependent upon the hospitality of others.  If they are not worried about working conditions already, this last bit of information might set them on edge.  Basically, Jesus sends them out with nothing – no safety net, no creature comforts, and no guarantees.  The seventy are terrified and starkly vulnerable; and we, thousands of years later, are either equally wary or totally dismissive.

I remember many years ago talking with a clergy colleague who did a lot of consulting on evangelism.  She tells a story of how she was studying with a professor whose specialty was church growth, and her assignment for her thesis was to go to a local coffee shop and start talking to people about their faith.  The first week she went to the coffee shop, but was too terrified to talk to anyone.  When her professor asked her how it went, she totally lied.  She made up some story about having good conversations with folks.  This charade continued for weeks.  Each week she would go to the shop, but be unable to take that first step.  And each week, she would lie to her professor about trying.  Finally, guilt won over, and she took a small step forward.  She made a little sign out of a folded piece of paper that read, “Talk to me about church, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”  She sat nervously, petrified of what would happen.  Eventually a woman came up to her and said, “I’d like to talk to you about church, but I’ll buy the cup of coffee for you.”  The following conversation was transformative for them both, and the professor, who knew all along she was lying, was proud to see her finally make progress.

Like there was good news for my colleague, so there is good news for the seventy.  Although Jesus does send the seventy out in a very vulnerable way, he does not send them alone.  Jesus sends them in pairs.  Having a partner offers all sorts of security in the midst of their vulnerability.  As David Lose says, “When one of them falters, the other can help.  When one is lost, the other can seek the way.  When one is discouraged, the other can hold faith for both for a while.  That is what the company of believers does – we hold on to each other, console each other, encourage and embolden each other, and even believe for each other.”[i]

Second, Jesus promises the seventy that the harvest is plentiful.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they are responsible for preparing the harvest – that is God’s work.  Their work is simply to gather the harvest.[ii]  This distinction is pretty tremendous because Jesus is saying that people are ready for his message.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they will need to go out and convince people of the message.  Instead, he tells them that there are people who will already be receptive and are simply waiting for the seventy to gather them.

Finally, we hear that after this scary commission – as lambs among wolves, of walking over snakes and scorpions, and of being utterly reliant on the hospitality of strangers – the seventy return with joy.  This thing Jesus asks them to do does not leave them bereft or exhausted or even discouraged.  The seventy return delighted in what has happened to them; not because they did something, but because of the work that God did through them.[iii]

This gospel lesson has good news for us today as well.  Despite our hang-ups about the commission, at the end of the day, this story is about our own call to share our experience of God’s grace with others – especially in these identity-challenging times.  When we think about this text in those terms, the language starts to shift.  When Jesus says we are to go out for the harvest, and that the harvest is plentiful, mostly Jesus is telling us that in our world today, people are eager for a word of Good News.  Even if they say they are not religious, or they do not normally talk about God, Jesus assures us today that there are many people who want to hear your story of gratitude about all that God has done in your life.  And when Jesus says the kingdom of God is coming near, he is not asking us to go to Market Square and grab a megaphone.  Mostly he is telling us to stop delaying and get out there.  The kingdom being near is his way of saying the time for sharing is now, even if your sandwich board is more like a folded piece of paper inviting others to coffee and conversation.  Finally, when Jesus tells us to cure people, we might consider the ways that our faith has been a salve for us.  Surely in your faith journey, at some point your relationship with God has gotten you through something tough and has returned you to wholeness.  The worlds needs the salve of the Good News now more than ever.

And just in case you are not sure about all of this, I want to give you a little encouragement.  I once gave some homework to one of my Vestries.  They were to go to a local gas station or shop and ask for directions to our church.  One of our Vestry members was shocked to find that the grocery clerk was able to give her perfect directions to our church.  The Vestry member found out that she lives in the neighborhood across the street, though she had never actually been inside our doors.  Another Vestry member was chatting with a different grocery clerk about the amount of blueberries she was purchasing.  The Vestry member explained that they were for Church.  The clerk proceeded to ask her which Church and even said she might come by one Sunday.  Even I had an encounter at the local gym.  I was stretching and a gentleman approached me who I had seen several times.  He said that he had seen me in a church t-shirt the last time I was at the gym and he wondered what my affiliation was with church.  In the conversation that followed, I learned that he had once attended our church and that he might consider coming back for a visit.

Though the language of this gospel might make us evangelism-wary, politically-exhausted Episcopalians nervous, the truth is Jesus is simply inviting us to share the Good News of God’s grace in our lives.  He promises that we do not have to do the work alone – we always have good partners here at Hickory Neck.  He promises that people are ready to hear our words – we all have a story of goodness about our faith journey here the world needs to hear.  And he promises that there will be joy – we will all find surprising delights in this journey of sharing.  Our invitation is to be a laborer in the plentiful harvest.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “The Greater Gift,” July 1, 2013, as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2617 on July 5, 2025.

[ii] David J. Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 217.

[iii] Richard J. Shaffer, Jr., “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 218.

Sermon – John 17.20-26, E7, YC, June 1, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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One of my favorite biblical scholars is Karoline Lewis.  She is one of the hosts of a preaching podcast I listen to, and through listening to her over the years I have found her to be insightful, funny, passionate, and deeply attuned to where the Word of God meets our daily lives.  Lewis is a New Testament scholar whose expertise is especially in the gospel of John.  In fact, her commentary on the Gospel of John is my go-to commentary anytime I am exploring John’s gospel.          

The irony in my deep appreciation for Karoline Lewis is that her passion and love for the gospel of John is almost in equal balance to my dislike for the gospel of John.  Where she finds deep beauty and meaning in John, I often find a jumble of words that are so repetitive and circular that I get lost.  Even when I have prepared a sermon for and studied a passage of John for the entire week, when I get to the moment of holding that gospel book and proclaiming John, I find myself second guessing myself, “Wait.  Didn’t I just read that sentence?  That sounds like what I just said a second ago – did I repeat a line?” 

Today’s gospel from John is a classic example.  We find ourselves at the end of Jesus’ farewell address to the disciples before his crucifixion and death, and within that address, at the end of his high priestly prayer.  In this prayer, Jesus prays several phrases in that typical Johannine circular language, “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…so that they maybe be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one..”  The good news is that Lewis and other scholars seem to agree that what Jesus is praying in his circular, convoluted way for is unity.  As scholar William Herzog suggests, “What matters most for John is that the experience of the indwelling remains available to the community, for the unity of the Johannine community is based not on dogma but on a communal experience of indwelling that is analogous to the relationship between Jesus and the Father.  This is what the community witnesses to the world.  Their mission is to keep this experience of faith alive in the community, so that they can offer it to a broken and fractured world.”[i]

Now, while unity is a theme we can get our heads around, unity is a practice we seldom live or experience.  Disunity is our lived experience.  One look at the deep, seemingly irreconcilable differences between political positions would be enough for any of us to understand how fantastical unity sounds.  But disunity is not just in the wider world.  Just this week in Discovery Class we were talking about how theological differences around the sacraments are what created the array of denominational differences within the Christian body – the reason why some of us are not welcome at the communion table in other denominations.  And that does not even address the differences of opinion the various churches hold on the role and place of women, LGBTQ members, and people of color.  But the lack of unity gets even closer to home right here at Hickory Neck.  I have long touted the unity of Hickory Neck across political and theological differences.  The unifying symbol of us of gathering together around the table has instilled in me a deep belief that if we can be one in communion, surely unity is possible in the world.  But even I, in the last six months have wondered if external pressures would prove that our unity is not as a strong as I think. 

That is why, for this one time in particular, I am grateful for John’s repetitive circular language.  Jesus’ final words of prayer today are, “I made your name known to them, and will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”  As one scholar says, “The last word is love.  Jesus does not call for doctrinal unity, organizational unity, or political unity.  So often, Christ’s prayer for his disciples has been used to sanctify those ends, and even to justify the harsh imposition of artificial unity.  Yet this prayer is for unity that grows out of the love of God, received and shared among his followers, leading to an experience of unity in love between Jesus and his followers, and with the one from whom Christ comes.  In moments of communion, surely the debates about the nature of God and humanity, the questions of whether divine grace or human will is the means of unity, all of these must fade away, leaving only the burning vision of a cross and the words, ‘For God so loved the world…’”[ii]

My fear that the unity I have witnessed at Hickory Neck would unravel was perhaps based on the idea that we could humanly will our unity to stay together.  But John’s gospel today reminds me that the only reason we are not unraveling is not because we have willed our unity, but because the love we have found in Jesus – the same triune love experienced within the three persons of the trinity – is what holds us together.  Jesus’ prayer today is not a prayer for those disciples who heard the prayer.  Jesus’ prayer today was for us – the future generations who would exist only through the love that the divine has given us – that circular, sometimes confusing, but ever convincing love in us and through us.  Our work is in that last part – that love going through us.  The love of Jesus for us in this prayer is not just for us – but is the gift that emanates through us out in the world.  As Lewis says of this prayer, “Jesus is no longer in the world.  The incarnation is over.  Jesus has been resurrected.  He ascended to the Father from whence he came.  But we are still in the world.  Jesus’ works are now in our hands, and Jesus is counting on us to be his presence in the wake of his absence.”[iii]  That charge would be daunting if not for Jesus’ prayer of promise – we can be that presence because the love that was in Jesus is now in us, breathing, transforming, and blessing the world through love.  Amen.

[i] William R. Herzog, II, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 545.

[ii] Peter J.B. Carman, “Theological Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 544.

[iii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014),214.

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.

Sermon – Mark 7.1-8, 14-15, 21-23, P17, YB, September 1, 2024

04 Wednesday Sep 2024

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Before I became a priest, I served as a Director of Volunteer services at a Habitat for Humanity affiliate.  In my training as a volunteer manager, I learned that one of the most important things about recruiting someone to a volunteer position was clarity about what one was asking from a volunteer.  If they were going to serve on a committee, how long was the commitment, how frequently would they meet, what work would be expected, and how was leadership structured were all details they should have.  If they were going to work on site, what training was expected or would be provided, what age restrictions existed, what risks would they undertake, and how their day would be structured were important details before a workday.  If they had a group event, they needed to know how many volunteers could be on site, what hours they needed to commit to, and what happened in inclement weather.  By the end of my tenure, every volunteer position had a position description outlining expectations, qualifications, and rewards.

So, imagine my transition to the priesthood and realizing how poorly the Episcopal Church had defined membership.  The very first time someone asked me (and every time since then), I dread the question, “So what do I need to do to become a member of this church?”  The Episcopal Church does a notoriously poor job of defining membership.  Our commitment to professing “All are welcome!” seems to translate into no defining characteristics of membership.  “How do I join your church?” should be one of the easiest questions there is.  And yet, when I talk to new members, the answer has to be two-fold:  the technical answer (as long as you attend three services a year and are a financial contributor, you’re considered a member – the answer from the wider Episcopal Church which I loathe!), and the more practical answer we have crafted here at Hickory Neck:  you fill out a form, you commit to supporting the church financially, you commit to feeding yourself (through study, prayer, regular worship), and you commit to feeding others (through giving your time to the church and to the wider community on behalf of the church). 

Our gospel lesson today seems to be wading through a similar lack of clarity.  The Pharisees and scribes are totally perplexed by how some of Jesus’ disciples are not washing their hands before eating – a totally valid concern in these days of post-pandemic!  But handwashing was not just about hygiene.  The ritual washing of hands was about identity, or “membership” as we understand membership today.  The Jews of this time are in an “oppressed minority, living in an occupied land.”  Their question is asked with the backdrop of colonialism, cultural and religious diversity, and competing claims on identity.[i]    Their question is both simple and complex:  why aren’t the disciples living like members of our community? 

For many a reader of this text, all sorts of erroneous conclusions have been drawn – primarily the anti-Semitic understanding that the laws of the Jews are superseded by laws of Jesus.[ii]  But that is not what is happening in this text.  Jesus does not have any issue with ritual cleansing:  he of all people understands the expectations of following God.  But Jesus is saying something more nuanced about identity and membership.  Jesus is saying that no matter how we traditionally mark ourselves as “other,” even if something is “the way we’ve always done it,” what is more important is how we live our faith.  So, if we are doing all the right things:  washing our hands the right way, bowing or genuflecting at all the right times, crossing ourselves when we’re supposed to, saying “Amen” during the sermon – or avoiding saying “Amen” during the sermon – none of that matters if our insides are defiled.  As Jesus quotes from Isaiah, “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…”[iii] 

Today’s invitation is to ponder what membership in this body of faith means.  Are we honoring Jesus with our lips, but our hearts are far from Jesus?  Are we following the external “rules” but fostering evil intentions in our heart?  Have we filled out the membership form but neglected our work of feeding ourselves and feeding others?  Our work this week is making sure that when we go out into the world to love and serve the Lord – the dismissal that the we agree to every week – that we love and serve the Lord in ways that show people Christ through our words and actions; that as the political season ramps up, we ensure we are not defiling the dignity of any human being with our lips; and that when we talk about how much we love this church on the hill, we do so in a way that does not mask our individual struggles with avarice, deceit, slander, pride, and folly.  Telling the world you are a proud member of Hickory Neck Episcopal Church is just fine – and something I hope you do on a regular basis.  But our invitation from scripture today is to be clear with others that, as that old tune says, “He’s still working on me,” is also a part of membership in the body of Christ – perhaps the most appealing one that draws others into a desire for membership too.  Amen. 

[i] Debie Thomas, “True Religion,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on August 30, 2024.

[ii] Idea suggested by Matt Skinner on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#799: 14th Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 22B) – Aug. 29, 2021,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/799-14th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-22b-aug-29-2021 on August 28, 2024.

[iii] Mark 7.6b.

On the Road to Getting It Right…

03 Wednesday Jul 2024

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Photo credit: https://azdiocese.org/2023/11/the-philadelphia-eleven-screenings-in-arizona/

This past Sunday, the local Episcopal parishes in my town gathered to watch the documentary, The Philadelphia Eleven.  The film details the history of women’s ordination in the Episcopal Church, and the first eleven women who were “irregularly ordained” in 1974 (i.e. ordained by Episcopal Bishops, but without the church’s General Convention sanctioning the ordination of women).  The question of women’s ordination had come before General Convention many times before, but was always defeated.  So, fifty years ago, a handful of women, along with male allies, decided they could not wait any longer.  The film tells the story of the outrage the eleven women created, the abuse and death threats they faced, and the way that their diverse ministries led to the sanctioning of women’s ordination by General Convention in 1976. 

I came into the Episcopal Church later in life.  Although deeply involved in the United Methodist campus ministry at my college, an ecumenical trip with the Episcopal campus minister was my first real exposure to the liturgy and polity of the Episcopal Church.  That campus minister was a woman, and at that point in my development, that did not seem abnormal.  Then, a couple of years after college, I stumbled into the Episcopal Cathedral, whose dean was a woman.  One of her assisting priests was also a woman.  Those early mentors did not just normalize women’s ordination – it never occurred to me that there was a time when women were not priests.  In fact, I remember an occasion when one of my own daughters as a young child asked me, “Can boys be priests?”

At this year’s General Convention of the Episcopal Church, we took the first steps to authorize the honoring of the Philadelphia Eleven in our set of honored saints we celebrate at weekday Eucharists.  In the same city, where 51 years earlier the General Convention had denied women’s right to ordination, we agreed to honor the saints who pushed us to be better versions of the Church.  All female clergy in the room were invited to stand to a roar of applause.  I looked at the other women, many of whom I know and love, and I looked at the male clergy and laity whose eyes and smiles were full of admiration and respect, and I realized a couple of things.  One, it is always a joy to celebrate when the Church gets something right – even if it takes a long time for the Church to get there.  And two, I can be in ministry as my most authentic self is due to the suffering and courage of men and women I may never meet. 

I share all this not to brag on the Episcopal Church – in fact, we still have a long way to go.  Income disparity between male and female clergy is still a problem, as well as access to comparable positions.  I have been the first female rector both times I have served as rector, and both times, people left the church when a woman was hired.  But I share this story more because I wonder who else have we excluded from the Table.  I share this story because I found myself wondering whether I would have risked being one of the Philadelphia Eleven, knowing the suffering that would come.  I share this story because as someone who really appreciates rules and boundaries, I wonder which of those rules and boundaries the Holy Spirt keeps bumping against.  While these may seem like big questions, or super-Church-nerdy questions, I think these questions are for all of us – an invitation to wonder who we have excluded in the communities of faith we love so much.  The Philadelphia Eleven seem to be still asking us these questions fifty years later.    

Sermon – 1 Samuel 8.4-20, 11.14-15, Mark 3.20-35, P5, YB, June 9, 2024

19 Wednesday Jun 2024

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This morning, we get two powerful stories from scripture.  In our story from first Samuel, we hear the story of how the people of Israel come to demand a king to rule over them instead of God and God’s appointed judges and prophets.  They figure if they have a king like the other nations, then they’ll never have to worry about their safety and security.  A king will defend them in a way that looks familiar – like the other nations – than a way that feels like trusting a God you cannot see.  Of course, Samuel warns them – you pick a king and the king will take your daughters and sons into his service, will steal your land and produce as his own, will take your property and use it to his own benefit, will basically enslave you (not unlike the days in Egypt).  But the people insist none of that matters – as long as they have a king like everyone else.

Meanwhile, in Mark’s gospel, Jesus has been healing people, driving out demons, saying some things, and generally making a raucous.  Here, two groups insert themselves – the scribes, who try to claim Jesus is possessed by a demon himself, and his family, who are concerned he has lost his mind and want to restrain him.  Jesus is so frustrated by their behavior, especially of his mother and brothers that he loudly states, “Who are my mother and my brother?”  In other words, he denies his very own family because they cannot see the truth in what he is doing.  In these two stories – of the Israelites wanting a king and of Jesus’ family demanding he behave in a certain way, we have people thinking they know better than God – taking matters into their own hands thinking they know how things should be.

I was talking to another parent recently about how parenting is probably the hardest job of all the vocations I have – particularly as a person who likes to imagine she has a modicum of control in her life.  In the beginning, although parenting is physically exhausting, parenting is also manageable in a way that is not so obvious.  For those infants and young children, you have a lot of control – what the child will eat and drink, what the child will wear, when the child will rest, where the child can go.  But as the child ages, they make more and more of the decisions – what they will wear, where they will go, with whom they will spend time.  This is, of course, how parenting should be – the raising up of an independent child.  But the more your child becomes independent the more you realize how the younger years were the “good ol’ days” – the days where you felt like you were in control (or at least convinced yourself you had more control than you probably did).  Parenting feels like the ultimate test for those of us who like a sense of control.

But the truth is, the ultimate test for those of us who like a sense of control is being a person of faith – following a God whose logic sometimes feels illogical, following a savior who says and does things that really push our buttons, and following a Spirit who takes us places we really do not want to go.  And so, we find ourselves, much like the Israelites, accepting slavery, abuse, and the loss of freedom just to get those things we think will make us happy and whole.  We find ourselves, like Mary and Jesus’ brothers, bossing around God, insisting God behave in ways that make us feel comfortable.  Instead, God tells them and us to trust – to trust that God will provide leaders who will guide us in the ways of justice and truth; to trust that even the things we cannot understand will lead to good; to trust that even though we cannot know what God knows, our wholehearted trust in the will of God is all that matters.

So how do we do that?  How do we, people of free will, in a country of democracy where “we the people” make decisions, in a time when choices are boundless and we must make them, how do we become people of trust – people of faith?  Well, I like to go back to that story of Jesus in a crowded room from Mark’s Gospel today.  Scholar Debie Thomas says, “…I can’t help but imagine what it must have felt like to be inside the house with Jesus that day.  I know intimately and well, as perhaps you do, the hunger to belong, to have someone safe and loving to belong to.  Regardless of our circumstances, we all know what it’s like to yearn for someone who can hold all of who we are, and love us still, without flinching.  That’s exactly what Jesus does for the crowds that day. He invites them in, he asks them to stay, and he makes them family. 

Yes, Jesus divides the house, and that process hurts.  But he doesn’t divide [the house] to make us homeless.  He divides [the house] to rebuild it.  To make [the house] more spacious, more welcoming, and more beautiful.  The Spirit of God is neither insane nor evil; the Spirit completes the good work he begins.  His will be a house of healing for the whole world.”[i]

Holy Scripture today is not inviting us to become some mindless, fluff who walk around without aim or purpose just “trusting that God will work everything out.”  God did give us freewill, and God does want us to use that freewill for good.  But what the Holy Spirit is trying to remind us of is that we do not have the whole story.  We cannot see the way in which Jesus is rebuilding the house.  We cannot fully know the feeling of being inside that home where true healing may be.  We cannot understand the fullness of the implications of our desires – which seem reasonable and justified to us.  But what we can see and know and understand is that Jesus is building a house of healing for the whole world.  And if we can stop trying to parent God, we can start beginning to see that God is constantly doing a new thing and inviting us into the family.  We just do not get to be the parent in that family.  And that is a very good thing indeed.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “A House Divided,” June 3, 2018, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/1805-a-house-divided on June 5, 2024.

On the Blessing of No…

05 Wednesday Jun 2024

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Photo credit: https://toledoparent.com/online-exclusives/learning-to-say-no/

For weeks my fourth grader has been talking about running for Student Body President.  I was admittedly proud of her gumption, but also wildly (and quietly) nervous on her behalf.  She is a genial, vibrant, beloved individual and I feared what losing an election at her age might do to her self-esteem.  But even with gentle warning, she was determined.  So, we worked on her speech and filled out the paperwork.  The “primary” involved whittling down a group of 12 students to three – no speeches or posters, just a raw “popularity contest” among the fourth graders.  Last night she returned home only a little disappointed that she had not been elected to the final ballot. 

I do not know why I doubted her capacity to maintain her self-confidence in the face of such a loss.  I have been modeling the same for her for years – sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.  Sometimes you get a yes, and sometimes you get a no.  These lessons have certainly happened verbally and in low-risk ways, like in card games.  But the lesson has been learned in big ways too – like a lost bishop’s election.  Though I loathed the very public nature of a bishop’s search, I do not think I fully understood the power of letting my girls watch me not only be nominated, but make very public presentations, and then not be elected.

Without realizing it, I have been teaching my girls the power of a good “no.”  Almost all the good things that have happened to me – jobs, schools, auditions – were preceded by a solid no.  The student government election I did not win, the audition where I did not make the cut, the job I really wanted and did not get.  Every single one of those no’s profoundly taught me something about myself I did not know, and every single one of those no’s led to another opportunity that could only open up because of the no that happened first. 

The experience of no’s can be brutal to the ego.  But I wouldn’t be the spouse, mother, priest, or human that I am today without all those no’s.  And now I know that learning was not just for me – it was for my children too.  And maybe those no’s have been for some of you as well.  I wonder what no’s you are facing these days.  I wonder what you have learned from the times you received a no.  I suspect the Holy Spirit has been transforming you so that when you get a yes, you come to that yes as your most powerful self – the self that was made in God’s image and is beautiful and beloved.

On Seeking and Seeing Sacred Ground…

29 Wednesday May 2024

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Photo credit: https://medium.com/koinonia/dont-wait-for-a-burning-bush-f8c7435489ae

One of my fitness routines includes attending “barre” – a class that combines yoga, Pilates, and ballet.  When you enter the studio, you remove your shoes and put on special socks to prevent slipping during the class.  You then enter the actual classroom and procure any fitness aides required for the class, such as hand weights, bands, or balls, and proceed to setup up your space at the barre.  I tend to take classes in the 5:30 am hour, so most of the time I am pretty groggy and operating on auto pilot as I prepare my space for class. 

Knowing my routine for class, imagine my surprise the other day when, as I somewhat sleepily entered the classroom, I found myself bowing.  I was immediately shocked and a little embarrassed by my body’s instinctual movement.  As a priest, I bow all the time – as I reverence at the altar, as the processional cross passes me, at certain points in the Creed, or at the name of Jesus in the liturgy.  But I have never reverenced an exercise classroom.

The strange appearance of such an out-of-context movement got me thinking about Holy Scripture.  In Exodus, we hear how Moses receives his call at the site of a burning bush.  When God calls out to Moses amid the flames, God says, “Come no closer!  Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”[i]  Now I am not sure I would call the barre classroom sacred ground – though the Lord’s name is often called upon, especially during long plank series.  But something about that room made my body respond to its holiness the same way I respond to the holiness of Church.  So how exactly do we define a holy place – or sacred ground?

In the instance of barre class, perhaps what my body was responding to was the way I do find holiness – in the care and compassion of teachers, in the camaraderie of classmates on a shared journey of health and wholeness, in the individual experience at the barre when you feel like you cannot go on and something or someone pulls you through doubt.  Though I think the sacred ground of worship space is unrivaled as a place of encounter with God, the community of Jesus, and the movement of the Spirit, I certainly have found other sacred places – the mountain community where my family gathered every summer with the wider church; the edge of crashing waves, where the vastness of the Creator is palpable; the coffee shop where someone pours out their heart’s burdens to another and blessing is proclaimed.  Perhaps regularly attending Church, with its preserved sacred ground, is what allows us to see and hear God on the sites of sacred ground all around us.  Where are you finding unexpected sacred ground these days?  Where is God inviting you to take off your shoes and give reverence to the mightiness of our God?

[i] Exodus 3.5