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On Faith, Wellness, and Reality…

21 Wednesday Oct 2026

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One of the questions the bishop asks a priest in their ordination vows is, “Will you do your best to pattern your life and that of your family in accordance with the teachings of Christ, so that you may be a wholesome example to your people?”  I remember when my bishop asked me that question over 16 years ago how daunting that question felt – not only for myself but also for my family.  Having grown up as a preacher’s kid, I remember thinking how much pressure that invitation felt:  for the whole family to be a wholesome example to the church. 

So, when the Church invited clergy and their spouses to attend a Wellness Conference last week, focusing on both physical and financial wellness, I had a revelation in one of those sessions:  this is what that promise was all about.  Tending to my family’s physical and financial wellness is patterning our life as an example.  And so are a lot of other things we do:  navigating parenting, tending to our marriage, working on my own physical, spiritual, and mental health.  Giving attention to all those areas are ways that we model faithful living.  And perhaps most importantly, being honest about the struggles, upfront about the good and the bad days, and inviting others to share their truth too creates the foundation where we can all more honestly journey in the life of faith authentically and encouragingly. 

My hope is that we do that work together in preaching and teaching too.  I cannot count the number of times someone has said to me after a church service, “That sermon was tough!  You gave me a lot to think about.”  My response is always the same, “Just remember, every sermon I preach is addressed to me too!”  If the words of Jesus or the story of God is challenging to you, you better believe those same things are challenging to me as well.  My hope is that by naming how hard they are, I am doing my work of being a wholesome example. 

All that is to say, I invite you to take an honest look at your witness to others (yes, even if you’re not a priest, others are looking at your life as your Christian witness).  Are you tending to your own wellness:  physical, spiritual, mental, financial?  Are you being open and honest about where your faith pinches and where you still struggle to make sense of it all?  Being a wholesome example doesn’t mean only showing others a “perfect life.”  Being a wholesome example means revealing your humanity and your desire to love God even when your capacity feels diminished.  Many more people will feel invited into a journey of faith if they feel like they can do that without trying to be perfect – just wholesome.

Sermon – Matthew 22.15-22, P24, YA, October 18, 2026

21 Wednesday Oct 2026

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“Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”  Jesus says these words today, and we tend immediately do some mental math to make meaning.  As one scholar points out, “Some people point to this passage as proof that God and politics should be kept separate — that things like taxes have absolutely nothing to do with one’s theological commitments.  Others say that this story proves that religion is a matter of the heart, and that Jesus doesn’t really care about mundane things like what you do with your money.  And some have cited this passage as proof that Jesus taught that the law is the law, and our duty as Christians is to support the government no matter what.”[i]

But before we start doing our own twenty-first century mental math, we need to understand what is happening in today’s story that evokes this seemingly clear statement, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”  Jesus is not laying out a treatise of how his followers are to navigate the tensions between church and state.  Jesus is navigating the various factions that would much rather have him eliminated than hear the real meaning of his words.  The Pharisees and the Herodians have little in common.  In fact, they are pretty much enemies, with the Herodians dedicated to King Herod and the Pharisees dedicated to Jewish Law – including being opposed to paying the tax to Caesar for religious reasons.  But despite these divided loyalties, the Pharisees and Herodians unite in their desire to remove Jesus from the scene.[ii] And so, they play this game, trying to trick Jesus into either angering the state or angering the faithful – either way, cursing Jesus.  But Jesus transforms the trick into something much bigger than the narrow question about taxes.  His clear statement, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s,” volleys a question back to both the Herodians, the Pharisees, and even us, over 2000 years later.  The return question for all of us is:  What belongs to the emperor and what belongs to God?

Now, when I’m exploring a new concept, I’m a bit of a visual learner.  I need to see something in writing or have something in a chart or spreadsheet to really grasp a new idea.  So, let’s take Jesus’ statement, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s,” and make a mental pie chart.  Are you ready?  First, let’s put our taxes pie piece in the chart.  We’ll estimate that to be about twenty percent.  So, now we have a pie chart with about eighty percent left.  From that, let’s take out our pledge.  For ease of argument, let’s say we subscribe to giving a tithe, so we will take out ten percent.  That leaves us with seventy percent with which to play.  But Jesus says that the things that belong to God should be given to God.  If we have jobs, or retirement funds, or we go to school, our ability to do those things belongs to God.  So, we have to give that back to God.  That probably leaves us with about fifty percent in our pie chart.  Our health is all owed to God as well, so now we are down to about forty percent.  Those friends and family that we hold so dear – those are also gifts from God.  That takes us down to about thirty percent.  And we can’t forget about food, shelter, and clothing.  We just dropped down to about fifteen percent.  Then there is the air we breathe, and God’s own creation, upon which we rely.  Now we are down to about five percent.

So, we officially have five percent of our “stuff” that belongs to us.  But wait – Jesus did not say, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s…and then keep the final five percent for yourselves.”  Surely Jesus knew we needed a little something that was just ours – a tiny slice of pie for our sense of self or identity.  But here is the rub in our lesson today.  The reason Jesus is able to send the people away amazed is because Jesus points out one even trickier, harder truth – everything we have – our tax money, our tithe, our jobs, our health, our family and friends, our food, shelter and clothing, the very air we breathe – everything belongs to God.  What Jesus is really saying today is that our question – and yes, this is our question too, not just the question of the Pharisees and Herodians – our question today is laughable.  We can make all the pie charts and balance sheets we want.  The pie chart really only has one big piece – and that piece says, “God’s.”

That coin that the Herodians and Pharisees carry around is of the Roman empire.  It has an image of the emperor on the coin, proclaiming that the emperor is both divine and the high priest – blasphemous proclamations about the identity and power of the emperor.[iii] Furthermore, the emperor required all taxes be paid in Roman money – money they must carry around for that purpose.  So, Jesus turns the coin on its head, as it were, and asks us what is the “coinage” of God?  Professor Raj Nadella argues, “God does not trade in Caesar’s currency.  The whole nature and trajectory of God’s kingdom that Jesus has inaugurated, and is inviting people to participate in, is fundamentally at odds with Caesar’s.  Which is why, while people must pay to both Caesar and God, they must pay them not only for different reasons but in entirely different currencies.  Paying to God and participating in the divine kingdom entails repenting of the ways they have been complicit in the Roman Empire and [the Roman Empire’s] agenda.  Paradoxically, then, people should pay taxes the empire has imposed upon them while actively resisting [the empire] and working to promote the alternative kingdom.”[iv]

Third century scholar Tertullian rephrased Jesus’ command as thus, “Render to Caesar Caesar’s image, which is on the coin, and to God God’s image, which is on man.”[v] If the emperor’s coins had the emperor’s face and blasphemous title on them, the coinage of God has our image on them – because we are made in the image of God.  So, the “things” that belong to God, the “coinage” that belongs to God, is our selves – myself, yourself, our neighbor’s self, and our enemy’s self. 

When we moved to Virginia many years ago, I got distinctive plates on my car.  Over the years, I have come to think of those plates as both a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand, the plates have led to conversations with strangers who have asked me whether I am a pastor and where I serve.  On the other hand, when my driving reflects the bad day I am having – the impatience, the frustration, the self-centeredness I may be showing as I drive – well, that is easily identifiable to others too. 

Because everything belongs to God, being a follower of Jesus means dealing in the coinage of God.  But unlike being able to hide away the emperor’s coins in our pockets, our coins are visible to all – our very beings are the coinage of God.  And so how we engage the world around us matters – not just as a reflection of our selves, but of God’s very own self.  Jesus knows we will participate in political and secular life and religious life equally.  But the currency of that participation can never be separate.  When we pay our taxes, when we cast our votes, when we feed our neighbors, when we let that aggressive driver merge in front of us, when we encounter the stranger, when we sit at the bedside of a friend, or even when we send that text, we do that with the coinage of God.  Jesus is just reminding us what’s in our wallet and showing us how we can use our enfleshed coinage for good.  Amen.

[i] Lance Pape, “Commentary on Matthew 22:15-22,” October 19, 2014, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-29/commentary-on-matthew-2215-22-5 on October 16, 2026.

[ii] Marvin A. McMickle, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 191.

[iii] N. T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 87.

[iv] Raj Nadella, “Commentary on Matthew 22:15-22,” October 18, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-29/commentary-on-matthew-2215-22-7 on October 16, 2026.

[v] Susan Grove Eastman, “Exegetical Perspective, “Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 193.

On Hidden Blessings…

07 Wednesday Oct 2026

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Photo credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; reuse with permission only.

This week I got a last minute invitation:  a friend of our parish is building a new home for their family, and the house is finally framed and closed in.  In a matter of days, the drywall will be hung.  In that brief window, the friend sent out an SOS to friends of faith – come by and write a scripture verse, a blessing, a prayer, or a book quote on the studs before they are hidden away by drywall, tape, paint, and artwork. 

In looking around the house, and all those words of blessing and care, I was thinking about how much a house hides.  All those words of blessing will be hidden very soon.  But eventually, those walls will also witness life’s sorrows and joys, life’s heartbreaks and cheers, life’s hardships and abundance.  Someday, new generations will warm the home with their squeals and laughter.  Renovations may be made, new paint may be applied, new pictures may be hung.  All that life – from the blessings on the studs, to the skid marks left by forbidden scooters, to the sighs of contentment that linger in the air – all that life, seen and unseen, will create a beautiful breathing container of the abundance of blessing. 

As I reflected on those studs, I wondered how often we get to think about our lives in the same way.  We can’t really write blessings on the insides of our bodies, but our bodies carry the markers of a sacred life led too.  The scar from playing in the old oak tree or from a life-improving surgery, the relationships that grew our heart’s capacity to love, the mentors who inspired our brains to interpret life differently, to the worship that got us out of our bodies enough to see blessing.  It is quite easy to treat the body as a vessel to live life or for a home to be a place to sleep, eat, and be cleansed.  But neither our bodies nor our homes are that simple.  They hold the markers our whole lives.

I wonder how you might honor those vessels today.  Maybe, as one of my fitness instructors says, you can thank your body for allowing you to function today.  Maybe, you can pause on a stairwell and give thanks for the millions of times feet have tread on those stairs.  Or maybe, you look at your body, or your home, and give thanks for signs of God’s presence, grace, and blessing. 

On New Clothes and Neighbors…

30 Wednesday Sep 2026

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In high school, my younger brother was the “cool one.”  He introduced me to new music, new trends, and new comedies.  In my senior year of high school, he convinced our parents to let me take the two of us to a concert.  I was excited to hear the music, but my brother pulled me aside to tell me that I could not wear clothes from my normal wardrobe.  As we headed out the door, I looked nothing like what I normally looked like; I felt as though I was in a costume of sorts.  And he was right – I fit into the crowd much better in his chosen clothes than anything out of my own closet.  It was a strange experiment in trying on the identity of another group of people.

Imagine my deja vu when, almost thirty years later, my daughter invited me to join her at a concert of music that I do not follow.  Although she was happy to have me join her, she too insisted that I borrow some clothes from her so that I would better fit in with the concert crowd.  I was grateful for the help, but I remember that same feeling of trying on an identity that was not my own. 

I have been thinking that those two experiences are fairly uncommon.  In general, we figure out our style – our sense of identity – and we live our daily lives in those “clothes.”  Those clothes communicate something about us, and often make navigating in and out of work, social engagements, and community functions relatively seamless.  In fact, when others imagine us, they probably imagine us in the style of clothing we normally wear – whether preppy, athletic, bohemian, or something else.  What I got at that two concerts was a rare taste of what it would be like to move in the world with a different sense of identity – and to connect more comfortably with people whose identity is quite different than mine.

I wonder how often in life we miss out on unique connections with people unlike ourselves because we get so set in or comfortable with our own identity.  I’m not arguing that we should try to pretend or be something we are not.  I am encouraging us to explore what unintentional, or maybe even unconscious, barriers we have put up between ourselves and others.  The core commandments Jesus summarized for us were to love God and love neighbor.  I wonder how much we limit our love of neighbor by simply staying in our comfort zones.  What “new clothes” might you try on today to help you connect with someone you have simply seen as “other” and not as “neighbor”?

Sermon – Matthew 20.1-16, P20, YA, September 20, 2026

30 Wednesday Sep 2026

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I have a clergy friend with whom I share a mixed friend group – we’re the only clergy in a mix of administrators, educators, medical professionals, stay-at-home parents, among other vocations.  I have watched my clergy friend in this group, and she is genuinely the nicest person I think I have ever met.  She is thoughtful and kind, generous and gracious, and generally everything you would hope a clergyperson would be (often leaving me feeling not feeling quite up to snuff, if I’m being fully transparent).  That friend is one whom I could imagine being hired by the landowner in our parable from Matthew at 6:00 am and working hard all day.  I could imagine her being happy that others get hired at 9:00, Noon, 3:00, and 5:00 – because she knows what standing in marketplace waiting to get hired feels like.  And I could also imagine her watching those workers who only were able to fit in one hour of work getting paid a full day’s wage and rejoicing with genuine joy.  And I can also imagine her humbly remembering that she agreed to work all day and only get the same compensation as the workers who worked one hour, and not being resentful, but grateful for the generosity of the landowner – because she wants to live in a world of generous landowners.  I can imagine her leaving that day, going home to tell her family about how lucky they are to live in a community with such a cool landowner who shows radical grace. 

But that is not how the parable of Jesus goes.  In the parable, my friend is not the 6:00 am worker.  I am.  And as this parable unfolds, my heart is not bubbling over with joy.  My heart is much less generous.  In fact, every time I read this parable, I find myself fidgeting as the day in the parable unfolds.  I’m not particularly upset that the landowner is generous – as those in the parable are.  I’m more upset that the landowner forces the daylong, exhausted workers to watch as the landowner very unfairly, inequitably distributes wages.  It’s like the landowner knows what he’s doing is outrageous, and he wants to rub the early workers’ noses in his obscene generosity. 

So where does this kind of outrage come from?  Well, there has been quite extensive research about where our sense of justice comes from.  There was a famous study with capuchin monkeys.  Two monkeys in neighboring cages were trained to hand the researcher a rock and get a piece of cucumber as a reward.  The monkeys happily do the task.  But then, after 25 times of that same way, the researcher gives one monkey a grape instead of a cucumber.  The other monkey, seeing the new reward of that monkey, excitedly gives the researcher a rock, expecting to similarly get a grape.  Instead, the monkey is given another cucumber.  The monkey loses her mind.  She literally throws the cucumber at the researcher, bangs on the cage, tries to get out to grab the grape she believes she is owed.[i]  All this is to say, the sense of justice as fairness is primal to us – ingrained deep in our reptilian brains and very difficult to change. 

But Jesus does not and has not ever defined justice as fairness.  Our measure of fairness is simple.  As Barabara Brown Taylor describes, we believe, “…Equal pay for equal work is fair; equal pay for unequal work is not fair.  Rewarding those who do the most work is fair; rewarding those who do the least is not fair.  Treating everyone the same is fair; treating everyone the same when they are not the same is not fair.”[ii]  Taylor argues, “Life is not fair, which is why it seems all that much more important that God should be.”  But, “God is not fair.  For reasons we may never know, God seems to love us indiscriminately, and seems also to enjoy reversing systems we set up to explain why God should love some of us more than others of us.  By starting at the end of our lines with the last and the least, God lets us know that [God’s] ways are not our ways, that if we want to see things [God’s] way we might question our own notions of what is faith, and why we get so upset when our lines do not work.”[iii]

We would define justice as fairness or equitable rewards for equitable work.  Unfortunately, that is not how God’s economy works.  Professor Lewis Donelson explains that this parable, “…not only supports both justice and grace but insists that they are and will always be in tension with one another.  Justice and grace cannot be reconciled with one another.  [And], They both are part of the character of God.”[iv]  In other words, God’s economy does not work like our economy.  And on an intellectual level we love that about God and know that we ultimate benefit from God’s upside-down economy.  But on a gut level, in that reptilian side of our brain, that side that gets jealous and greedy and fearful about scarcity, that throws cucumbers when we do not get grapes – on that level, God’s definition of justice makes us uncomfortable.  Knowing the “…sheer abundance of God’s grace,” that “God’s love cannot be used up,”[v] makes us, in our heads, humbly overjoyed and, in our guts, justifiably indignant.

That’s why the last part of our parable is so very important.  I have never liked how the landowner forces the full-day workers to watch the distribution of wages.  That part always feels like a “gotcha” to the hardworking full-day workers.  But Stanley Hauerwas clarifies, “If [the owner] had begun paying those hired first they would not have known that all were being paid at the same rate.  God’s grace is the grace of truth refusing to hide from us the character of our envy of those whom we think underserving.  The parable of the vineyard exemplifies God’s justice – a justice disciplined by the truth.”[vi]  In other words, the only way we fully understand the contrast in our sense of justice and God’s sense of justice is to see that justice in action and feel how that justice hits us in our guts. 

So, is today’s parable meant to leave us going home today just feeling guilty about how unlike God we are when it comes to justice and grace and our treatment of others?  Yes.  And no.  The parable offers harsh truth we need to face.  But what we do with that harsh truth is much more important.  For me, that means staying in that friend group with that friend who would have gone home happy for the one-hour laborers and shared the joy with her family (and maybe even been proud to know that such a landowner exists).  For you, that may mean digging into your own experience and recalling those days when you were still sitting in the marketplace and received abundant grace you did not deserve.  For us, that means looking at how we shape this community to model that vineyard – always looking for ways to model abundant, uncomfortable grace.  And for our world, that means becoming so revolutionized toward abundant grace, that we work to replicate that kind of grace in the economic system formed by our elected leaders – whether working within the system or outside the system.  Yes, this parable rightly makes us uncomfortable.  The challenge this week is what you can do with that discomfort.  This community is here to help you get out of your gut and into your head and heart.  Amen. 

[i] Debie Thomas, “On Fairness,” September 13, 2020, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2757-on-fairness on September 18, 2026.  Also see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meiU6TxysCg, posted April 4, 2013, as found on September 17, 2026.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 103.

[iii] Brown Taylor, 104, 106.

[iv] Lewis R. Donelson, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 97.

[v] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 176.

[vi] Hauerwas, 177.

On Change and Bread…

16 Wednesday Sep 2026

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On Sundays at church, we’ve been reading our way through Genesis and Exodus.  Last week we just read about the parting of the Red Sea.  This coming week, we find the freed people of Israel complaining about hunger.  In Exodus 16.3, the people of God complain, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” 

These faithful people went through a brutal, oppressive enslavement and witnessed a miraculous freeing by God – walking through a parted sea while their enemies were crushed.  They have everything they ever wanted – true freedom.  And yet, here they are, at the first sign of adversity, looking longingly back at slavery, because at least there, you were fed. 

I love that one of the powerhouses of the Old Testament, Moses, was the first to experience change management.  Moses was the first in what would become millennia of rabbis, pastors, and faith leaders who will hear, “I wish things were like they used to be!”  All those leaders have come to know that the hardest part about change is experiencing the discomfort of the new, next thing.  Any trace of difficulty or adjustment immediately sends people into romanticizing the way things used to be – remembering only the good of the past, and not all the equally bad or much worse parts of the past. 

As I think about the ungrateful and unbalanced perspective of the people of God, I wonder what things we are romanticizing in our lives.  What change are we bemoaning without appreciating all the ill we left behind – and some of the really great things in this new reality?  The good news is that we have a responsive God.  Despite the Israelites’ moaning, God provides them food that they need – even if that food came in a different form.  Our promise is the same.  God expects us to be in relationship so that God can be responsive.  Our work is to be open to the manna that might not look like sourdough loafs we love, but that feeds us in new ways.

Sermon – Exodus 14.19-31, P19, YA, September 13, 2026

16 Wednesday Sep 2026

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The scripture reading we heard from Exodus is a core identity story in Christianity – the parting of the Red Sea and the salvation of the people of God.  When God is referenced throughout scripture after this event, God is often described as the God who brought us out of the land of Egypt, across the dry land.  This is a pivotal moment that defines the kind of God that God is:  one who will not forever endure the oppression and suffering of God’s people; the God who will offer the oppressor multiple warnings and opportunities for repentance – nine plagues before offering the worst of the plagues at the Passover – when the first born of the Egyptians are all killed; a God who, when the oppressor keeps oppressing, raging after a people escaping through the dessert in nothing but sandals and their meager possessions, coming with the full force of strong horses and powerful chariots, a God who liberates God’s people and decimates the oppressor.  This passage is one of two mandatory readings from the possible list of nine readings at the Easter Vigil – a service whose entire purpose is to articulate the salvation narrative – the salvific work of God and our commission to witness to that God through our love of God and neighbor.  And, at its very root, this is a story that fascinates our children as many of them wonder what the walls of a parted sea look like – whether you could see fish or not. 

The primacy of this story, and the way the story of Moses parting the Sea of Reeds is so central to our understanding of God, often makes hearing this story with fresh ears difficult.  All we need to hear is “…Moses stretched out his hand…” and our eyes glaze over as the victorious image of salvation soothes our anxieties and makes us feel safe, protected, and at peace.  At least that is usually my experience of this narrative.  But this week, in the wake of the 25th anniversary of the tragedy of September 11th, my eyes gravitated to a part I had glossed over so many times before today.  The penultimate verse from today’s reading says, “Thus the Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore.”  I am usually captivated by the images of the rushing army, the blinding cloud, the scurrying across dry land in the middle of a sea, and the panic of horses and chariot drivers who express fear and regret before the seas return over their heads.  But this week, all I can imagine is the panting people of Israel, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, fear of death slowly subsiding as they look at the dead bodies of Egyptians on the seashore – the same Egyptians who spent their lifetimes oppressing the people of God and who now have no life left. 

This week I took on the discipline of listening to stories from StoryCorps about September 11th.  StoryCorps was a project founded in 2003 that has since recorded hundreds of thousands of conversations, usually between two people, meant to document everyday American life.  Those stories are collected at the U.S. Library of Congress, but countless stories are available online and air weekly on public radio.  The story that caught my attention this week was of a woman who escaped the devastation of the Twin Towers, arriving at home that night with debris still in her pockets, who just days later, and for years thereafter did her job of helping identify the remains of those who died in the devastation.   When speaking to her daughter, she described the overwhelming experience of identifying the bodies of the terrorists who instigated the horror of that day and her life for so many years.  As families insisted terrorist bodies be separated from the bodies of the victims, she just stared paralyzed – not knowing what to feel about the remains of those terrorists.  In full confession she simply asked, “What do I do?  Am I mad at it?  Do I stomp on it?  What do I do with it?”[i] 

In the last twenty-five years, both in the days after that fateful day, but in the myriad experiences of the twenty-five years that originated from that day, my one conclusion about that eventful day is that the experience was complicated.  So many questions, so much anger, so much pain, so much loss, so many beautiful moments of grace and reconciliation, so much violence, so much trauma, and so many varied testimonies make telling that one story in our history complicated. 

For the longest time, complicated was not a word I would use for the story of Moses parting the Red Sea and God liberating God’s people from oppression.  But as I think about the trauma of slavery by pharaoh, the horror of plagues, the fear in escape, the noise of chasing chariots, the wonder of a parted sea, the relief of eliminated enemies, and the sight of those dead enemies on the seashore, complicated seems like the only word for this seemingly innocent tale of liberation. 

So, what do we do with the realization that one of our core narratives is so very complicated?  Scholar Cameron Howard argues, “…God’s love may be universal, but [God’s love] is not neutral.  God is never a neutral observer in any biblical account; God always takes sides.  In the exodus story, God chooses to liberate the Israelites from Egyptian bondage.  God has no patience for Pharaoh’s delusions of godly grandeur, nor for his vicious grasping at power and glory.  Similarly, Jesus’s death on the cross is no affirmation of the Roman Empire, but rather an indictment of its cruelty.  Jesus’s resurrection may not overthrow the Roman Empire, but [his resurrection] certainly exposes [the Empire’s] ultimate impotence and the farce of [the Roman Empire’s] claims to absolute dominance.  Throughout Scripture, from Exodus to the Gospels and everything between and beyond, God sides with life over death and humility over power.”[ii]

Verse 31 of Exodus chapter 14, the last verse in our text, says, “Israel saw the great work that the Lord did against the Egyptians.  So the people feared the Lord and believed in the Lord…”  Now, we always have to remember that the word “fear” in Hebrew means a deep, reverent awe or profound respect for God.  The people are not scared of God.  They just have profound respect for the God who sides with life over death, and humility over power.  Our work is to make sure we are aligning ourselves with the work of life, not death – the work of humility and not power.  That we are aligning ourselves with the people of God and not the people of oppression and overpowering. 

The story of the liberation of the people of God may, in fact, be quite complicated.  But in other ways, the story is also quite simple.  Being followers of God means being people of light, love, and life.  Despite the horrors of September 11th, there are also beautiful stories – of those who helped others, those who narrowly missed disaster, those who gathered in prayer and healing.  Those stories are instances of people choosing good, choosing light, choosing life.  That is our invitation every Sunday too.  We are a people invited every day to be agents of good, of light, and of life.  The opportunities for life and humility will vary as widely as each of our lives and vocations are – just as the opportunities will arise for death and power.  Our invitation is to hold on to the good, and to let our lives be a witness to the God whom we hold in deep, reverent awe and profound respect.  Go and be light – God will light the way if you but follow.  Amen.

[i] “She Barely Survived 9/11 – Then She Had To Identify Those Who Hadn’t,” as told by Kurt Mundorff, Amy Mundorff, and Sarah Mundorff, aired on September 11, 2026, found at https://storycorps.org/stories/she-barely-survived-9-11/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=sotw&utm_content=Kurt_Amy_Sarah%20Mundorff&fbclid=IwY2xjawUSbKBwZG9mBWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAGJyaWQRMWxjS2pkckJJc2VRM1NUQ0hzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEekUlXJp38c72Vk3VzQy_SpX0uhV9BW9qY9B_GzGQrlSQ7-M6U6ii6Q7IwFC8_aem_Gczt_0peUQwBS8rr4ekf7w on September 11, 2026.

[ii] Cameron B.R. Howard, “Commentary on Exodus 14:19-31” September 13, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-24/commentary-on-exodus-1419-31-7 on September 11, 2026. 

On Seeing the Kingdom…

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Photo cred: Stephanie Snow, as found at https://stephaniesnowphotography.com/7-poses-for-beach-pictures-for-your-family/

Every summer, our family travels to the beach.  But unlike traditional beach stays, we stay at a community house run through the Episcopal Church.  The house has 11 family rooms, shared living spaces, and two shared meals a day.  The house is only a few blocks from the beach and a couple more blocks to the boardwalk.  Staying in a community house certainly involves some uncertainty – you have no idea who will occupy the other 10 rooms:  singletons, couples, families with either young or older children, rooms occupied by friends of another room’s occupants, or grandparents, uncles or aunts, or cousins of other housemates.  Invariably, communal meals and living spaces are shared across generations, often with people who were strangers at the beginning of the week, but friends by the end.

This year, I was struck by the magic of the multigenerational nature of the house.  I watched as my preteen joined in games with older adults.  I watched as an elementary school-aged child reveled in the design of a birthday cake of someone in her late 60s.  I watched my high schooler talk about the local amusement park with one of the younger residents.  And probably most beautiful, I watched as each morning and evening, hands joined together across family and generational lines, to offer up prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude before meals.

Our experience at the beach reminds me so much of the same beauty I find at Church.  I love watching grandparent-aged folks marveling at the princess dresses of our young ones.  I love watching parents of young children kneel next to adults old enough to be their parents – and watching them exchange looks of awe as a young kid asks for a blessing.  I love watching hugs exchanged across generations, older members asking students about their studies and extracurricular activities, and parents welcome in a harried newcomer parent whose victory that day was just getting the whole family through the church doors. 

When folks are looking for a sense of community or even more specifically for a worshipping community, all sorts of factors come into play:  the music selections, the liturgy choices, the sermon style, or even the dress code.  But probably more important than those surface differences is the way a church makes you feel:  a sense of belonging, of affirmation, of spiritual guidance, of connection – to God and to others.  In “church speak,” you’re looking for the kingdom of God here on earth.  No church is perfect – because every church is made up of imperfect persons.  But when the Church is fully being its beautiful self, there’s a magic you cannot find elsewhere.  Come see for yourself, and fold yourself into the beauty of community!

Sermon – Exodus 3.1-15, P17, YA, August 30, 2026

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Many years ago, I was watching an episode of a popular TV show.  The main character had arrived at a friend’s house and was asked to take off her shoes before proceeding into the house.  Now, the character was kind of a shoe diva, so she presented as being upset because 1) the shoes were a strategic part of her outfit – her outfit just didn’t look the same without the shoes; plus, 2) they were pretty expensive shoes, so the idea of leaving them behind felt akin to leaving your wallet in a vulnerable place.  The homeowners had zero sympathy, so the audience was left feeling the same upsettedness as the character removed her precious shoes and left them among the shoes of the other guests.

In hindsight, while the character was legitimately concerned about the safety of her expensive shoes and even the negative impact on her cute outfit, what the show never really addressed was what removing shoes does at a deeper level.  Removing shoes, particularly in the presence of others, makes you vulnerable.  You cannot hide the fact that you put on your socks with the holes you haven’t mended, or the pedicure you’ve failed to tend for over a month, or the ways your feet become sweaty on a hot day, or the myriad ways you don’t see your feet as “pretty” or at least “presentable.”  Removing shoes takes away any status markers and leaves you on uncomfortable footing with others. 

When we hear the story of burning bush today, Moses is asked to do exactly what that TV character was asked to do – remove his shoes.  God says to Moses, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”  Now, I have always heard that part of the passage and narrowed in on the holy ground – wondering what makes certain ground holy, where I find holy ground in my life, or whether holy ground is even a modern-day occurrence.  But this week, I have been more focused on the removal of sandals. 

In many Asian countries, removing shoes indoors is common practice.  My nephews, who were born and live in China, automatically remove their shoes when they come in your home.  In Burma, you find piles of flip flops outside of classrooms and homes.  In Japan, you remove shoes and are immediately given slippers – and sometimes a different set of slippers for different parts of the house, like the bathroom.  In a survey taken in Japan, “…81 percent of the people identified not one, but two equally important reasons for taking their shoes off when they enter their homes: 1) to keep their houses and floors clean; and 2) to be able to relax and be themselves.”[i]

Here is where I think the text is really pointing when we talk about Moses taking off his shoes.  As one scholar asks, “Is it possible that God tells Moses to take his shoes off because he wants Moses to be himself?  To remove all pretense?  To be vulnerable and open to what God has to say?”[ii] 

If we keep reading, our text talks a lot about identity.  When God calls out to Moses (before Moses removes his shoes), Moses says, “Here I am!”  But then just verses later, Moses says, “Who am I?”  As in, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”  And even later, when Moses is commanded to go to the people and report that God sent him, he asks who God is – what God’s name is.  In this jockeying back and forth between Moses and God about identity and purpose, commissioning and authority, at the heart is conversation that can only happen if God and Moses enter the conversation with full vulnerability, honesty, and humility.  Perhaps there is nothing at all sacred about the ground beneath that burning bush on a molecular level[iii] – the ground becomes sacred when shoes are removed. 

I’ve been spending a lot of time this week watching old clips of Dolly Parton, Patron Saint of the Smokey Mountains.  Now shoes were important to Dolly – along with sequins, and hairspray, and makeup, and supportive undergarments.  But in a metaphorical way, I think Dolly taught us a lot about how to take off your shoes and make holy ground wherever you are.  Dolly never hesitated to talk about her impoverished upbringing, how her looks both opened doors and created liability, or how every bit of success and financial windfall was a gift from God.  By taking off her shoes so readily and regularly, Dolly taught us what happens on sacred ground.  On sacred ground, the marginalized are noticed and honored, children of any background are given an education, jobs are created in depressed areas, LGBTQ+ community members are made to feel blessed and valued, women are empowered, and conflict is accompanied by lightness and laughter.  But that kind of sacred ground could never have emerged unless Dolly took off her shoes over and over again.

Our scripture today asks us to do the same:  to take off our shoes so that we can see holy ground.  That holy ground is obvious to us in some places – at the communion rail, in our favorite pew/seat, or in our favorite prayer spot.  But this week, Moses invites us to take off our shoes so that we can see holy ground in more unexpected places – in our workplace, at school, in our homes.  Now, there may be some places that removing your shoes is impractical – while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store, on the playground at play, or in your favorite restaurant.  But I want you to at least imagine taking your shoes off in all the places you find yourself this week and see how your perspective changes.  Maybe with your shoes off, the guy talking too loudly on his cell phone seems more sympathetic as you look at the dark circles under his eyes.  Maybe with your shoes off, that silent orderly who cleans up the neighboring hospital room seems like more of a crucial part of the hospital than the doctors and nurses.  Maybe with your shoes off, that clerk at the grocery store who barely makes eye contact seems much more interesting as you ponder how she makes a living serving you.  And when you lay your head down to sleep each night this week, I invite you to thank God for the holy ground in your life and the opportunity to remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.  Amen.

[i] Karla Suomala, “Commentary on Exodus 3:1-15,” September 3, 2017, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-22/commentary-on-exodus-31-15-4 on August 28, 2026.

[ii] Suomala.

[iii] This train of thought inspired by reflections by Anathea Portier-Young, “Commentary on Exodus 3:1-15,” August 31, 2014, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-22/commentary-on-exodus-31-15-5 on August 28, 2026.

Sermon – Genesis 37.1-4, 12-28, P14, YA, August 9, 2026

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Family Systems studies is one of the most important areas of study for a pastor.  Understanding the interconnected emotional network of a congregation helps the community navigate group behavior, anxiety, and change management.  You can study as much scripture, homiletics, theology, ethics, and liturgy as you want, but all you need is one funeral or wedding to watch everything unravel in the face of generations-learned dysfunction and conflict.  To every single person who has ever whispered to me a confession that their family might be a little bit dysfunctional, I make my work to disabuse them of the idea that any family functions perfectly healthily all the time – even the pastor or the therapist’s family – probably especially the pastor and therapist’s families. 

Last week we talked about the not-so-functional family of Isaac and his scheming son Jacob, who wrestled with God after a lifetime of manipulation and grasping.  Lest you think Jacob was an outlier in his family, today we get the story of Jacob’s son’s.  Now, biblical commentators warn about drawing too many parallels between Jacob’s family and modern families.  With Jacob’s two wives, and their two servants, Jacob’s children are descendant from four mothers – all living together and all giving birth to create one family.  But things were even more complicated than that:  remember, Rachel, the younger daughter of Laban, was Jacob’s favorite wife.  But for a long time, Rachel was unable to bear children, and Leah, the older daughter of Laban who Laban tricked Jacob to marry, was heartily fertile – giving Jacob six of his 12 sons (not to mention a daughter).  Rachel’s servant was offered to Jacob and produced two children in her stead, not to be unmatched by Leah’s servant who added two more.  Needless to say, this would have been a very tricky family to minister to at a funeral.

And although we don’t bless marriages to multiple wives, let alone marital-type relations with maid servants (who also don’t exist in modern times), we are very family with complicated families.  Between divorces, blended families, and a whole bunch of stuff we don’t talk about publicly, we know plenty well about how messy family can be.  That’s why today’s story about Joseph is not all that shocking if we’re being honest.  Like his parents before him (Isaac favoring Esau and Rebekah favoring Jacob), and his grandfather before him (Abraham, who cast out Ishmael when Isaac came along), Jacob had favorites among his children.  Jacob’s favorite was a double favorite – the favorite son from his favorite wife.  And Joseph was not the most mature or what we call “self-differentiated” member in the family:  In just a few short verses (and in some of the verses we skipped today), we know that Jospeh was a tattletale on his half-brothers, that he shared aloud two dreams he had where his brothers and father were bowing down to him, he sported a beautiful, embroidered coat – one designed for royalty (not shepherds) – and that his dad was unambiguous about his favoritism for Joseph.  You can hear the anger and projection in his brother’s words, “Here comes that dreamer!”  Now, we can argue about whether Reuben is a hero for ensuring the brothers threw him in a pit instead of killing him, or Judah was being caring by selling Joseph into slavery instead of letting him die in the pit – but the triangulation, conflict-avoidance, and lack of self-differentiation in this family is off the charts!  This would be a family systems professor’s dream case study.

But here’s the funny thing happening behind all that mess.  Joseph’s brothers aren’t the first people to try to stifle a dreamer.  On April 4, 1968, after having given his “I have a dream” speech in DC, and after rallying the sanitation workers in Memphis, Martin Luther King, Jr., was murdered.  He was murdered because many did not like his dreams and did not want him to speak any more about them.  On a memorial sitting outside the National Civil Rights Museum on the property of the preserved Lorraine Hotel where King was murdered are etched words from today’s passage:  “They said to one another.  Behold.  Here cometh the dreamer…  Let us slay him…  And we shall see what will become of his dreams.” 

At the heart of Joseph’s story, and the reason his story is so close to home, is certainly about family dynamics – but at an even deeper level is the problem of sin.  At the root of the hatred of Joseph and the desire to kill a brother is envy.  We know envy as one of the classic seven deadly sins.  Cain murdered his brother Abel out of envy.  Envy is prohibited in the ten commandments.  As theologian Geoffrey Hoare explains, “Envy is the name given to either that desire we have for some possession or quality or talent that belongs to someone else, or the desire that the other not enjoy some possession, quality, or talent…Envy can stem from the belief that there is not enough favor to go around, from a sense that life is fundamentally unfair, or possibly from simple greed.  Any of these causes for envy are in direct opposition to the revealed purposes of God for the world, and so envy gives rise to rebellion against the Lord of the universe.  In God’s economy, material circumstance is the source of neither happiness nor salvation.”[i]  Jacob’s brothers operated out of envy and in opposition to God’s economy.  The people of this country operated out of envy when talking about sharing equal rights.  We act out of envy every time we gather around this Eucharistic table caught up in our inability to operate within God’s economy, like Jospeh’s brother also ate together while their brother languished in a pit nearby.

Edwin Friedman wrote a lot about Family Systems, talking about the multigenerational nature of emotional or family systems.  “The theory is that patterns of relationship get played out and repeated from generation to generation, unless or until someone seeks to change those patterns, largely through self-differentiation and a willingness to resist succumbing to anxiety while the family system resists this change and seeks to return to its status quo.”[ii]  Abraham couldn’t see God’s economy when his first-born son came from his wife’s servant.  Jacob couldn’t see God’s economy when he stole Esau’s birthright and blessing.  Laban couldn’t see God’s economy when Jacob desired Rachel over Leah.  Joseph’s brothers couldn’t see God’s economy when Jacob loved one son over the other eleven.

What Family Systems tell us is that we cannot fix others.  Joseph could not force his brothers to see generously instead of seeing with jealousy.  We cannot force parents, siblings, children, friends, or fellow church members to see with God’s abundance instead of life’s scarcity.  Paradoxically, that is where we find the good news in Joseph’s story.  The only way to mend a broken family system is mend ourselves – to function in a non-anxious, self-differentiated way.  We won’t get to hear the whole of what happens to Joseph in slavery next week (spoiler alert – he serves as a slave for 12 years, is then imprisoned for many more years before his ability to interpret dreams is discovered by Pharoah.  He becomes Pharoah’s number two, saving the country and eventually his own people when a famine comes).  But next week, we will find a Joseph, who, in his ability to self-differentiate in an unhealthy system reencounters his brothers with forgiveness and grace, breaking generations of hurt.  By the end of the book, Joseph will say to his brothers, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.”[iii]

Joseph invites us today to step out of our generational habits of harm, and to step into habits of good.  Joseph invites us into redefining how systems malfunction but focusing on our own healthy functioning.  Joseph invites us to look through the lens of God’s economy where there is always enough, and not through society’s economy that only sees scarcity.  Healthy functioning is not easy work, and the work takes good partners for support and strength.  The church invites you to use this table not as a place to let your hurt and envy fester, but to release that hurt and envy to God.  This table will empower you to feel and know what belonging to each other really means.[iv]  Amen.

[i] Georffrey M. St. J. Hoare, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 3.

[ii] Hoare, 5.

[iii] Genesis 50.20.

[iv] Gary V. Simpson, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 5.