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Sermon – Luke 23.33-43, P29, YC, November 23, 2025

03 Wednesday Dec 2025

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Today I have a confession.  I am tired.  After watching the debacle of the longest ever government shutdown, only to jump into the next political scandal, struggling to understand how vastly different the kingdom of God is from the kingdom of man, I find myself not emboldened, but just tired.  Now, as person of faith, I am always looking for hope.  In fact, even this week, your Vestry and I spent time taking a step back and looking at all the goodness happening in this place – the signs of vitality and vibrancy, the things that are bringing us joy, moments and ministries that are giving us life.  But I confess, even with all that energy and goodness to celebrate, one look back out into the world, and my spirit is dampened and I am just…tired.

As I turned to our gospel lesson for today, I was hoping for some bit of encouragement – some promise that everything would be okay.  Knowing today is Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday in the liturgical year whose text should bring into focus the point of a year of journeying with Christ, I had hoped that there would be some sort of rallying text that would invigorate me and shake me out of my exhaustion.  But instead, on this day when we honor Christ our King, what is the image we are given?  A beaten, humiliated, ridiculed, discredited, shameful shell of a man, hanging on a cross, defeated in approaching death.  We do not get Christ risen from the grave today – the ultimate Easter message.  No, today we get Good Friday – our hoped-for Messiah, seemingly defeated on the cross.  Of course, he dies with great dignity, forgiving sinners until the very end, welcoming the repentant even on their last breath, resisting every urge strike back or at least refute the charges against him.  He dies with dignity, but he dies nonetheless.

I have often thought it is strange how the cross, and not the empty tomb is our primary Christian symbol.  That we use an instrument of death as our sign for victory is rather odd.  But today we do not just honor Christ’s death on the cross; we honor how he died on the cross.  Even in death Christ our King managed to love his neighbor – even the really bad neighbors.  Even in death, Christ managed to love God – inviting God to forgive even the most hateful behavior.  Even on the cross, Jesus never loses his focus.  Jesus never gets tired.

Just like the kingdom of God is different, so is the king of God.  The people of God never really had a king until they reached the Promised Land.  They saw the neighboring countries with their armies and their admirable kings, and they wanted one for themselves.  That was their first mistake.  God granted them a king to rule over them, but inevitably, the kings, like any humans, were flawed – some more than others.  Hence, there are four books in the Hebrew Scriptures about the kings who ruled and the judges who tried to correct their behavior.  Most of the kings were corrupted by power, money, and greed.  Many abused the people.  Even the most revered king, King David, was a bit of a mess.  But Jesus is not like foreign kings or the kings of Israel.  Jesus’ kingship is different.  He loves the poor and cares for the sick, he sees through the pretenses of the temple and calls for authenticity, he loves deeply and forgives infinitely.[i]  And he never tires of being this kind of king.

For most of us, looking to Jesus as an example of how to rally out of our fatigue and weariness may feel overwhelming to our tired selves.  Instead, I found looking at the repentant thief to be helpful.  You see, the thief was probably tired too.  Anyone who is a thief has been hustling long before he gets caught.  He may have even been caught several times before for more minor offenses.  His arrest this time is different.  There will be no escape.  He will hang on that cross until he dies.  With the cruelty of the cross, and the pain of his body, also shining forth is an overwhelming sense of fatigue.  He too is tired.  Tired of running, tired of hustling, tired of the life that leads one to become a thief.  But even in his deep fatigue, he does something extraordinary.  When the other thief taunts Jesus, the repentant thief lets the other thief have it.  Hanging in agony, he looks outside himself, and refuses to stand for the hypocrisy of the other thief.  He decries the injustice of Jesus’ sentence, he wisely points out his own, as well as the other’s, culpability in sin, and then, without shame looks right at Jesus and asks Jesus to remember him.

Even at our most weary, tired states, when we feel like there is no hope, or when death feels ever present, Jesus invites us to keep shining our light for all to see.[ii]  Our gospel this week has people doing just that:  taking their world of hurt, pain, sadness, sorrow, defeat, seeming hopelessness, and turning toward the light.[iii]  The thief, hanging in humiliation and death, finds his light.  Jesus, defeated in the eyes of all but the thief today, keeps shining his light until the bitter end.  And Hickory Neck has them too.  Our children last Sunday and our psalm this Sunday that tell us to “Be still and know that I am God.”[iv]  Our parishioners delivering food before thanksgiving and shopping for the forgotten for Christmas.  Our members making stretch gifts to support the work of the kingdom here. 

Christ our King invites us to do likewise.  Of all people, Jesus understood being tired.  His cry out to God in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane is a prayer of a tired man.  But Jesus stood up that night, all the way to the cross on Calvary and refused to let fatigue be an excuse for a world without love, hope, and forgiveness.  Our king may not look like other kings.  His story may be strange and full of contradictions.  But our king has the power to pull you out of darkness and drag you into the light.  But along the way, he is going to need you to shine your light too.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Christ the King C:  What Kind of King Do You Want?” November 14, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/11/christ-the-king-c-what-kind-of-king-do-you-want/ on November 21, 2025.

[ii] Karoline Lewis, “Who and What is Your King?” November 13, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4754 on November 21, 2025.

[iii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 337.

[iv] Psalm 46.10a.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YC, January 5, 2025

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

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Many Episcopalians find their way to the Episcopal Church from another way – another denomination or even no faith at all.  One common theme among those making their way to the Episcopal Church is that they are fleeing a faith that is “black and white,” or “either/or.”  They find comfort in the Episcopal Church because the Episcopal Church embraces the “gray,” or the “both/and.”  The appeal of those other traditions is obvious – there is no ambiguity or need for discernment in a “black and white” faith.  Something is either right or wrong.  That kind of clarity is refreshing in a world that is always complex, complicated, and ambiguous.  But our Episcopal tradition does not offer the comfort that comes from absolutes.  Our tradition helps us find comfort within, not despite, the complexity and ambiguity of both our sacred and secular lives.

Take our gospel lesson today.  We could easily read the Epiphany story, the story of the visitation of the Wise Men or Magi, and make easy, defendable categories:  Herod is bad, the Magi are good.  But before we dig in too deeply in that dichotomy, we are going to be good Episcopalians this morning and look into the gray.  We start with the Magi.  There is something quite magical about these wise people of thought.  Their magic is not in how they used their mental capacities to track a star to find the Messiah.  What is magical about the Magi is their response to finding Jesus.  Matthew tells in the literal translation that the Magi “rejoiced with a really, really big joy.”[i]  These Magi, who know very little about the life, death, and resurrection of the king of the Jews feel something, feel really, really big joy in the Christ Child because they, unlike most of us, have “mastered the art of hoping in God.”[ii]

Ellen Davis, Old Testament scholar, explains there is a Proverbs verse that helps us understand the Magi.  Proverbs 10.28 says, “The hope of the righteous is gladness.”  She goes on to explain, “Those who train their sights on the faithfulness of God, ‘the righteous’ – they already experience joy even before they see their hopes fulfilled, even if they never live to see (in this world, at least) the clear fulfillment of all that God has promised…That is the kind of joy that burst forth that night on the streets of Roman-occupied Bethlehem, like flowers springing suddenly out of stone pavement.  It was joy that takes root in nothing more (or less) substantial than hope itself.”[iii]

The Magi’s hope does not teach us that because God is born in Jesus all is right in the world.  I am not sure any of us would believe that anyway, given the current state of the world.  Instead, as Davis explains, “Christian hope is something very different from the natural feeling of elation that comes when things are going our way.  No, hope is not a feeling that ebbs and flows.  Rather, it is a way of living that we choose; and gradually, day by day, we learn to be graceful in it.  Hope is a way of living beyond our own limited vision and natural fears, a way of living into God’s faithfulness and there finding fullness of joy forevermore.”[iv]

Now, we could easily stop our interpretation there, and say, “Don’t be bad like Herod, be hopeful and righteous like the Magi, and all shall be well.”  But remember how I told you about the ambiguity of the Episcopal Church?  Let’s go back to Herod – the supposed “wrong” to the “right” of the Magi.  We know Herod is a horrible, power-hungry, paranoid ruler.  We are told that when these foreigners come out saying a new King of the Jews has been born, Herod is afraid.  He’s not scared of a baby – he’s scared about the threat to his power.  And so, he pulls together his own biblical scholars in secret, and then talks to the Magi in secret to get them to find this baby – not so that he can worship him, as Herod claims, but so that he can kill the threat to his power.  And when that does not work because the Magi go home another way, we find out in the verses following our text today, that Herod has all the boys in Bethlehem under the age of two murdered – just to make super sure that his power is secure.

But the problem of making Herod out to be the villain is we skip over one key point.  The text says, all of Jerusalem is frightened by this new king too.  As Davis explains, “Herod could not have secured the deaths of all those children, if he were the only one who was afraid.  Matthew is pointing to the clearly documented fact that fear is contagious, and [fear] readily crosses party lines…Fear spreads like plague through an unhealthy system, infecting not only those who are powerless to defend themselves – the Jewish families in Bethlehem – but also infecting the relatively powerful, the ruling elite in Jerusalem, who sensed (with that gut-gripping fear that comes in the middle of the night) the fragility of the base on which their power rested.”[v]

So, before we try to simplify again – Magi are good, Herod (and the people of faith in Jerusalem) are bad,” Ellen Davis encourages us to see another way.  She says, “This is not a simple picture of them and us, as we would prefer to believe.  Rather, if we read the story deeply and honestly, I think we will identify both with fearful Jerusalem and with hopeful Magi; for they both reveal aspects of our own situation that we have not seen clearly before…there is judgment for us in that picture of Herod and all Jerusalem.  Matthew holds [that judgment] before us like a mirror, challenging us to acknowledge our fear, to recognize the violence that springs from fear and will doubtless perpetuate [violence].  Yet Matthew does not consign us to despair.  For alongside that mirror is a second one – you might call [the second mirror] a glass of vision, for [the second mirror] show us something a little ahead of where we are now.  [The mirror] shows what we as a church can and will look like if we stand against the tyranny of self-perpetuating fear.  We will look like the Magi.”[vi]

I cannot think of a better time to read this “both/and” text, this “gray” text where everything is not so rigid as we might prefer.  Many in our communities are full of fear right now – fear from what the changes of a new administration will do in power, fear of violence like the wonton killing of those in New Orleans this New Year’s, and even fear of financial instability in these volatile times.  We do not honor the Magi today because their message is “Just have hope and all shall be well!”  Instead, as Davis argues, Matthew, “challenges us to be the community of resistance that the church has been…from the beginning.  [Matthew] challenges us as a church to examine and deepen our understanding of the systems that generate fear for ourselves and others.  He challenges us as a church to find ways out of those systems – not to despair, though the systems are large and powerful, but to find and commit ourselves to the small steps by which we may depart from the country governed by fear and go by another road to our own country, that place we call the kingdom of God.  Matthew’s Gospel challenges us to live boldly in the hope of the Magi, so that having rejoiced with them at the first coming of Christ, we may at his second coming know fullness of joy forevermore.”[vii]  That may not be the “right/wrong” word you were looking for this morning.  But I think the beauty of the gray of Holy Scripture today is exactly what we need.  Amen.

[i] Ellen F. Davis, “Stargazers,” January 5, 2003, Sermons from Duke Chapel:  Voices from “A Great Towering Church,” William H. Willimon, ed. (Durham, NC:  Duke University Press, 2005), 337.

[ii] Davis, 338.

[iii] Davis 338.

[iv] Davis, 339.

[v] Davis, 340. 

[vi] Davis, 341.

[vii] Davis, 341.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2024

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

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Every summer, we hold a film series at Hickory Neck.  This summer, one of the films was movie called Children of Men.  The film is a dystopian film situated in London about a time in the future when the world has become infertile.  The youngest human, aged 18 has just died, schools and playgrounds are abandoned, a pall of grief and depression hangs in the air, and the world has become violent, unpredictable, harsh – with massive detainment camps of refugees and rebels fighting the government militia and civilians alike.  Into this setting, we meet Theo, a man who has lost hope and purpose, and we meet a young woman of color who would normally be in one of those detainment camps, who is secretly carrying the first pregnancy in over 18 years.  Theo’s world is thrown into chaos as he tries to get the young mother to safety so that the child will be able to live freely. 

In a powerful scene near the end of the movie, the mother has birthed her child in a dingy, rat-infested, crumbling room, and Theo needs to get her and the child to the safe haven.  But the crumbling building is overrun with rebels and a battle ensues as the military shows up.  In the din of violence and noise, the baby cries out, and all activity ceases.  Rebels hold their fire as they watch in reverence as the baby is carried down the stairs of the building.  The soldiers outside call for a ceasefire as the high-pitched cries they have not heard in almost 20 years fill the air.  Rebels, civilians, and soldiers alike stand in awe, many reaching out just to touch the baby and mother.  The awed silence is so palpable that even movie watchers hold their breath at this miracle.

I imagine that night from our gospel lesson was a bit like that breath-holding moment in Children of Men.   We know that Mary and Joseph are going to be registered in Bethlehem, but what we can forget is that Mary and Joseph live in a time of occupation – where taxes are extorted, registrations can drive folks from their homes, where rebellion against the state leads to death.  The mass movement of people for the registration creates another layer of chaos, leaving people jockeying for shelter, especially a couple so close to birth, and whose pregnancy is of a dubious nature from the beginning.  Even in the peaceful countryside where shepherds are just doing their work, a chaos of shocking news, a chorus from angels, and the blinding light of the glory of the Lord is shining in their normally darkened pastoral setting. 

And then, just like in that battle scene in the film, the shepherds arrive where the holy family have made due, and a whispered conversation leads to a stillness that makes you hold your breath.  But this stillness is not just about the miracle of life – no this stillness is about so much more – about a savior, the Messiah, who has been promised for generations who finally is here; about a promised peace in a world that has no peace; about promises for justice that Mary has sung about with her cousin Elizabeth, and now seems to be a reality.  Mary is so overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment that all she can do is ponder the words of the shepherds in her heart.

What is so unsettling about the parallels in this secular, dystopian film and the ancient biblical story is not just their similarities.  What is most unsettling is their similarities to our own time.  Our political landscape is just as unstable, conflicted, and threatening.  Our economic, mental, and physical health is just as unsteady.  And for some of us, our home life is a place of even more strain.  In so many ways, having ourselves a merry little Christmas feels like a stretch.  In fact, the very reason we may be here tonight – besides a family member telling us we had to come – is that we long for that moment of awe – that quiet, tremendous, encouraging peace that can only be found at the site of the Christ Child.  We want a word, or a song, or a meal shared that will leave us something to treasure and ponder in our hearts too.

That is what Christmas does.  Coming here tonight is not going to solve all our problems or the world’s problems.  In that movie, as soon as the child is out of sight, bombs and gunfire ramp up dangerously again.  At that manger scene, Herod’s paranoid tyranny means Mary, Joseph, and Jesus will have to flee to Egypt for safety.  And come January, we will have a transition in power in our own country.  But tonight, in this sacred space, we enter into a time of unfiltered joy.  We recall what matters most – the Savior born in a manger whose eventual salvation will give us meaning and purpose.  We lean into those gathered with us tonight – those who are family and friends, those who are fellow church members, and even those whose names we do not know – we lean into one another in this safe space of sanctuary, where none of the darkness outside can touch us – even if only for an hour.  We lay down any burdens on our hearts at the altar as we share a holy meal, fortifying ourselves for what comes next.  And we glorify and praise God, like shepherds who have seen a great light, and whispered holy truths. 

Now unfortunately, that tremendous gift, that sacred life-giving balm, is not without a price.  The price, is that we must leave this place, enter back into the dark of night, and carry on with life back out in the world.  Our invitation is to carry whatever light, whatever hope, whatever small sliver of praise and glory we find this night, and gift it to someone else.  To be like Theo, who refuses to allow the glory of a mother’s child to suffer; to be like shepherds, who share the good news of a Messiah; to be like your neighbor in the chair (pew) beside you, who is already thinking of someone who needs the gift of hope and healing who cannot be here tonight, but whom your neighbor will be sure to gift some of that love and peace to tomorrow.  Christmas is the Church’s gift to you this night.  You are Jesus’s gift to someone else tomorrow.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.8-20, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2024

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

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Christmas is a funny thing.  Christmas is simultaneously soft and loud, comforting and unsettling, hopeful and demoralizing.  Some of that paradox comes from the Christmas story itself, but some of that paradox comes from our hopes and memories of Christmas verses our lived experience of Christmas.  I remember all the loveliness of Christmases past:  of familiar foods shared, of gifts exchanged, of the aunts and uncles verses cousins football games in our grandparents’ yard.  But as I aged, the veneer wore off:  aunts and uncles divorced, hurtful things were said and done, and older generations began sharing the “behind the scenes” version of our Christmases that I never knew – and wished I didn’t know now.  And, slowly, I began reshaping what Christmas meant for the next generation – with a sense of certainty about what I wanted them to experience and a sense of anxiety that they might someday lose the magic of a once special time. 

We hold this Blue Christmas service every year because somewhere in the midst of shopping, caroling, worshiping, and partying, our world – both the secular one, with Hallmark movies and glossy advertisements, and sometimes even our sacred one, with familiar carols and perfect pageants – our world offers us dissonance.  In the merry making, there is little room for the parts of us that are not merry – whether those parts are due to lingering Christmas grievances, visitations from the grief fairy when we least expect her, economic pressures and worldly anxieties, the open wounds from the brokenness of our country from a nasty political year, or relationships that are broken or are limping along.  The world and even the Church rarely makes space for our inability to fully embrace the merriness of Christmas. 

As I pondered this disconnect this year, I stumbled on a reading from Gertrud Mueller Nelson.  Nelson describes about this time of year – of this season of shortened days and lessened light, “Pre-Christian peoples who lived far north,” she writes, “and who suffered the archetypal loss of life and light with the disappearance of the sun, had a way of wooing back life and hope.  Primitive peoples do not separate the natural phenomena from their religious or mystical yearning, so nature and mystery remained combined.  As the days grew shorter and colder, and the sun threatened to abandon the earth, these ancient people suffered the sort of guilt and separation anxiety, which we also know.  Their solution was to bring all ordinary action and daily routine to a halt.  They gave in to the nature of winter, came away from their fields and put away their tools.  They removed the wheels from their carts and wagons, festooned them with greens and lights, and brought them indoors to hang in their halls.  They brought the wheels indoors as a sign of a different time, a time to stop and turn inward.  They engaged the feelings of cold and fear and loss.  Slowly, slowly, they wooed the sun-god back.  And light followed darkness.  Morning came earlier.  The festivals announced the return of hope after primal darkness.

This kind of success – hauling the very sun back:  the recovery of hope – can only be accomplished when we have the courage to stop and wait and engage fully in the winter of our dark longing.”  Nelson goes on to say, “Perhaps the symbolic energy of those wheels made sacred has escaped us and we wish to relegate our Advent wreaths to the realm of quaint custom or pretty decoration.  Symbolism, however, has the power to put us directly in touch with a force or idea by means of an image or an object – a “thing” can do that for us.  The symbolic action bridges the gulf between knowing and believing.  It integrates mind and heart.  As we go about the process of clipping our greens and winding them on a hoop, we use our hands, we smell the pungent smell that fills the room, we think about our action.  Our imagination is stirred.

Imagine what would happen,” Nelson adds, “if we were to understand that ancient prescription for this season literally and remove – just one – say the right front tire from our automobiles and use this for our Advent wreath.  Indeed, things would stop.  Our daily routines would come to a halt and we would have the leisure to incubate.  We could attend to our precarious pregnancy and look after ourselves.  Having to stay put, we would lose the opportunity to escape or deny our feelings or becomings because our cars could not bring us away to the circus in town.[i]”

In some small way, that is what tonight does.  Tonight, we take the wheel off our cars, and place the wheel in the wreath right here in this little chapel.  We take away our ability to bustle about, and we sit.  We sit in the dark, we sit in our discomfort, and we sit in our un-merriness.  We take time, listening to a story about some shepherds who were similarly uncomfortable in the dark of night, dirty among their sheep, in the fields – doing their daily, maybe sometimes demoralizing, work of shepherding.  We pray, we mark our specific sense of loss or pain with the lighting of candles, and we bless our lack of merriment – we receive permission to tarry for a while in the darkness.  We do that all because we know that after today, the light will start to come a little earlier, will start to last a little longer, and will start to kindle hope in us.  We may not yet be ready to leave this place, glorifying and praising God like those shepherds.  But we are able to receive the gift of this sacred inside time, knowing that light is coming – that days are coming when we, too, will remember joy, and life, and praise.  We tarry here because this is where we also find hope.  That is the Church’s gift to you tonight – space and a tiny little sliver of hope.  Come, gather by the wheel, and tarry a bit longer.  Amen.

[i] Gertrud Mueller Nelson, To Dance With God: Family Ritual and Community Celebration (Mahwah, NJ:  Paulist Press, 1986), 63, as quoted in An Advent Sourcebook, Thomas J. O’Gorman, ed. (Chicago:  Liturgy Training Publications, 1988), 141-142.

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

04 Wednesday Dec 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iii] BCP, 211.

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

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

On Blooms of Hope…

13 Wednesday Nov 2024

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Photo credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; permission required for reuse

I have written before about how I am not good with plants.  If the term “brown thumb” was invented for anyone, it was likely me.  I have been known to even kill a cactus.  I am so resigned to this reality that when someone gifts me a potted plant, even one with blooms already on it, my immediate reaction is guilt about how short a life the plant can expect in my care.

So, imagine my surprise when a similar gift from last Christmas, a Christmas cactus, began blooming today.  I was so shocked, that I went online to learn about the plant’s blooming practices.  It was in this research that I learned I have been doing everything wrong.  The research says the plant should never be in direct light (it is sitting in the full blast of the sunrise every morning); it says you should only water the plant when the top two inches are dry (I am pretty sure I water it weekly no matter what); and it says the plant should be kept in a cool, humid space (nope, and nope).  So, despite all my mistakes, despite how this plant should likely be dead by now, here this cute plant is blooming for the first time. 

That plant has reminded me of two things today.  First, that plant has reminded me of the ways that God can work for good despite me.  I do not have the gifts, interest, or time to lovingly help plants thrive.  But God has taken my measly offerings – the occasional remembrance to water the plant without any recollection how long ago I watered it last, the guilt that has kept me from throwing the plant away before now, and the half-hearted attempt to at least give the plant sunlight – God has taken these offerings and transformed them not just to survival, but to thriving.  I am humbled by a God who can produce good despite me.

Two, I am also struck by the fact that this plant is just one tiny example of the small goodness that surrounds us all the time.  The last week has been a rough one, especially in a congregation and a community that is very “purple” politically.  Though we are quite civil with one another, emotions have been all over the spectrum and I have been struggling to see where the hope is.  But the truth is hope and goodness have been around me this whole time.  I certainly see hope in this plant who is thriving despite me – and looking quite beautiful, indeed.  I see hope in the ways people are caring for one another – asking how people are really doing, and finding ways to offer solidarity and comfort where possible.  And I see hope as parishioners increase their giving to the church in a time when budgets are stretched and prices are rising.  We could find counter arguments for all those instances – reasons to be wary or suspicious or doubtful.  Or we can choose to notice the blooms opening slowly all around us.  I am not entirely sure what God is doing these days, but I have to tell you, I feel confident that God is here, bringing us comfort and signs of hope.  And that will suffice for today.

On Looking for Helpers…

02 Wednesday Oct 2024

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Photo credit: https://www.power-grid.com/der-grid-edge/electric-vehicles/midamerican-rolls-out-three-all-electric-utility-bucket-trucks/#gref

Last week I was on retreat in western North Carolina.  We were east enough that Hurricane Helene mostly dealt us wind and rain, and we only lost power and water for about seven hours.  But as we prepared to return home, the news was trickling in that the impact further west was bad – inconceivably devastating.  As I headed east making my way home, signs indicated the highway I was traveling was completely closed in the other direction and that all travel to western North Carolina was forbidden.

On the sobering home drive, as I contemplated all who were suffering and how mostly unscathed I was, a familiar sight appeared:  a line of electric company trucks driving westward.  Having grown up mostly in NC and having been on Long Island during Superstorm Sandy, I felt that familiar overwhelming sense of relief when you see those trucks after a storm.  Help was on the way.  Trucks with their workers from all over the place were dropping everything in their lives to offer up the gifts God gave them to help others.  I knew those in western North Carolina would feel a similar palpable relief to see those glorious white trucks, and I offered a prayer of thanksgiving. 

Fred Rogers used to say, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.’”  No matter how much we bemoan our divisions and the political toxicity in our country, it is the helpers that give me hope.  That line of white trucks was a reminder to me that goodness is all around us, even when hopelessness feels like it may drown us. 

I wonder what signs of hope you might be able to spy this week – what glimmers of light are breaking through the clouds if you open your eyes.  Or perhaps the Holy Spirit is beckoning you to be a helper – to be one of those signs of hopefulness in the ways that only you can.  I cannot wait to hear the stories of how God is showing up and birthing hope.

Sermon – Mark 1.21-28, EP4, YB (Annual Meeting Address), January 28, 2024

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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Before our family left for our cross-country trip during this summer’s sabbatical, I had been warned by a fellow parishioner.  “I never really understood the word ‘awesome’ until I saw the Grand Canyon,” she told me.  The word awesome seemed so underwhelming – maybe because we use the word for things that are less than awesome – an awesome movie, an awesome meal, an awesome day.  But as I stood at the rail, overlooking the massiveness of the Grand Canyon my brain scrambled.  It was as if my brain could not comprehend the sheer vastness of the view in front of me – how far does the canyon stretch?  How deep is the bottom?  How long did it take those specks that must be hikers to get there?  Or maybe, more deeply, how did God conceive of such an indescribably beautiful thing.  As tears welled in my eyes at the Grand Canyon’s inconceivability, I finally understood the word:  awesome.

In today’s Gospel, that is the reaction of the crowd to Jesus.  Jesus comes into the temple on the sabbath and teaches like no other teacher has.  The teachers they know “always say, ‘as Moses said,’ or ‘as Rabbi so-and-so said.’  Jesus [speaks] with a quiet but compelling authority all of his own.”[i]  And the people are astonished, awestruck, amazed.  And their amazement does not stop with Jesus’ unique authority in his teaching.  They see his unique words carry with them power to make the unclean clean.[ii]  Like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, their minds are scrambled.  They cannot understand this new thing.  They are just beginning to taste what one scholar describes as “One of the salient characteristics of [the Gospel of] Mark…the motif of surprise, wonder, awe, and fear…reactions [that] embrace all aspects of Jesus’ ministry…”[iii]  Those gathered today watch Jesus and can clearly say he is awesome.

This past year of ministry at Hickory Neck has struck me in a similar way.  I have stepped back many a time and looked at this community with a sense of awe.  I have told you repeatedly that one of the core values of Hickory Neck is our sense of curiosity – our willingness to try new things.  I talk about that core value a lot because that core value is extremely uncommon in churches.  Put more simply:  our core value of experimentation and playfulness is awesome.  I watched as your Sabbatical Team and your Vestry this past year embraced the idea of mutual sabbatical with gusto, confidence, and playfulness.  I watched as this parish didn’t just look at sabbatical as an obligation or a burden to bear, but as an opportunity to grow, try on new things, and encounter God in fresh ways.  I watched you learn, laugh, and love.  I watched you push yourselves and encourage one another.  I watched you grow in your relationship with God and one another.  And the view was awesome!

But I also watched you in the hard things this past year.  I watched as you grieved, struggled in your faith, and said goodbye to dear friends – all while embracing and comforting one another.  I watched our Stewardship Team take on a hefty deficit budget and decide to try a new approach to stewardship that felt uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and hard – and yet ended the year not only not incurring a deficit, but only using 8% of the savings we planned to use.  I watched as your Vestry held itself accountable to strategic goals the Vestry set for itself and I watched the Vestry struggle through hard questions of process and systems – and I saw the Vestry grow into the fullness of their leadership.  I watched a community struggle with decreased volunteerism and long-held preferences for the “way we have always done things,” – and I watched our community step boldly into doing things differently.  And I have to tell you, even (and maybe especially) in the hard stuff of ministry, the view has been awesome!

We started 2023 as almost two communities:  those long-timers who have been a part of Hickory Neck for ages but were away during long portions of the pandemic; and those newer members who made their way to Hickory Neck during- and post-pandemic who didn’t have a clue how things had “always been done” but knew they have found something special in this community.  One of our hopes had been that these two communities within a community would use our time of sabbatical to form a new Hickory Neck – to build a new way of being that involved shared leadership, creative ministries, and fresh encounters with the sacred.  I stand here today in wonder as I look at Hickory Neck a year later and I have to tell you:  the view is awesome!

We head into 2024 with some revenue challenges, with some needs for increased participation and leadership, and with the tensions that always exist in a growing church.  But we also head into 2024 with a renewed sense of wonder and awe in all that God is doing in this place.  From reenergized ministries to the wider community:  hosting the homeless, building beds for the children in our community who haven’t had a bed, feeding the hungry, and clothing those who struggle; to fresh, creative ministries that we have never tried before:  a children’s music ministry that will launch this summer with a chorister camp; to invitations to grow closer to that Jesus who is truly awesome – through liturgies, study, and service.  God has incredible things in store for us this year:  and the view is awesome!  Amen.    

[i] N.T. Wright, Mark for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 11.

[ii] Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 311.

[iii] John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark, Sacra Pagina Series, vol. 2 (Collegeville, MN:  Liturgical Press, 2002), 79.

Sabbatical Journey…On Hope and Humanity

29 Thursday Jun 2023

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West Yellowstone (reuse with permission)

I often find myself worried about the state of humanity.  Between our bitter American politics – where the art of compromise seems lost, the nasty interpersonal ways we interact with one another (don’t get me started about my local newspaper’s anonymous section), the way we are almost desensitized to mass violence, and the never-ending presence global warfare, I sometimes find it difficult to see hope or redemption for humanity.

But today was not one of those days.  Today was all about community and shared connection.  It started when we drove through Grand Teton to get to Yellowstone.  We had already had our Teton experience but were hoping to get a last view on our way out of town.  But a thick fog fell on the whole area, and my immediate thought was one of sorrow for all the beautiful sights today’s visitors would miss.  Later, at Old Faithful, we sat waiting for about thirty minutes to see the iconic geyser.  Swarms of people were gathered from all over the country and the world.  But when the geyser finally blew, the united gasp and cheers of joy made me feel like the barriers between strangers were immediately leveled.  Finally, at a community theater in West Yellowstone, we enjoyed a musical in a small venue with a variety of people.  With interaction encouraged, kids invited on stage to sing before the show, laughter, and the love of theater, I felt a true sense of connection to the gathered community.

Of course, I am unlikely to see most of the people I spent time with today again.  So, in the strictest definition, I was not building community.  But what was happening was the fulfilling of my baptismal covenant – where we were all respecting the dignity of every human being.  I think we make that promise in baptism because that is the real first step to building community:  respect, and being able to see the sacred in every person created in the image of God.  When we do that, all that hopelessness about humanity fades away.

If you have not looked at someone today with that kind of reverence, I invite you to give it a try.  Maybe you just watch people a little more gently (remembering days when you were “in a mood,” or when parenting was just super hard).  Maybe you offer a hand or an encouraging word.  Or maybe tonight you pray for someone you never actually met but crossed paths with during the course of the day.  I look forward to seeing how Jesus softens your heart and gifts you renewed hope!

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

30 Tuesday May 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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