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Sermon – Acts 2.42-47, E4, YA, April 26, 2026

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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“The meltdown started with a small thing — a bag of [lollipops].  Rachel Damgen’s four-year-old son wanted one.  She said no.  It was a few years ago, in the middle of the pandemic, when it was not unusual for her to be home alone for an 11-hour stretch with her two young kids. She was struggling with the isolation.  Small obstacles felt outsized…”  That meltdown, where she too ended up crying on the floor, “…was a turning point.  With their extended families far away in other states, she and her husband, Chris Damgen, began asking themselves if there was any way to reconfigure their lives in order to optimize for more support and community.  The answer they found was cohousing.”[i]

According to research, “The cohousing movement started in Denmark in the late 1960’s.  Today [cohousing is] an international movement.”  In the United States there are almost 200 cohousing communities across 36 states.  “Cohousing participants commit themselves to live intentionally in community.  Families live in private housing, but share public spaces, responsibilities, meals, resources, activities, and events.  Shared care for children and the elderly is often part of the mix.  Neighbors collaborate to plan and manage their communities.  Decisions often require consensus.  Cohousing is one response to the lack of social equity that the political scientist Robert Putnam of Harvard documented in his book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (2000).  Putnam showed how many people today feel disconnected and isolated.  We’ve accumulated what he called a growing ‘social-capital deficit’ that leaves people in our culture longing for a ‘more collectively caring community.’”[ii]

That same collectively caring community is what Luke describes in the lesson from the Acts of the Apostles today.  The scene takes place after the event of Pentecost, when the early church is forming and growing under the leadership of the apostles.  The reading first tells us some very basic tenants of life as a Christian – a new follower of Jesus.  We are told that after they are baptized, they do four things:  they devote themselves to the apostles’ teaching (so, what we might call Bible Study); to fellowship (think about small groups, Men’s Breakfast, or what some Episcopalians call the eighth sacrament, Coffee Hour); the breaking of the bread (for us this is weekly communion, but they also mean the actual sharing of meals after the ritual of communion); and the prayers (this is both the formal and informal prayers that were breathed in and out of daily life).  I imagine all those things sound very familiar and are things you too like about life in Church.

But then comes the twist from Luke that probably made each of you squirm if you were listening.  Luke tells us, “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.  Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.”[iii]  They sold their possessions and goods and distributed the proceeds to all.  Now, I know what you are thinking, “Here we go – here comes the financial ask to the Stewardship Campaign.”  Well, take a deep breath.  That’s not where we’re going.  Well, not totally.

Professor Willie James Jennings helps break open this radical way of living.  “It is not a new thing,” he says, “that people would offer up their possessions to a noble or religious cause…A different order of sacrifice is being performed here, one that reaches back to the very beginnings of Israel…  A new kind of giving is exposed at this moment, one that binds bodies together as the first reciprocal donation where the followers will give themselves to one another.  The possessions will follow.  What was at stake here was not the giving up of all possessions but the giving up of each one, one by one as the Spirit gave direction, and as the ministry of Jesus made demand.  Thus anything they had that might be used to bring people into sight and sound of the incarnate life, anything they had that might be used to draw people to life together and life itself and away from death and the end of the reign of poverty, hunger, and despair – such things were subject to being given up to God.  The giving is the sole purpose of announcing the reign of the Father’s love through the Son in the hands of communion together with the Spirit.”[iv]  In other words, coming into the life of Jesus and the walk of faith transforms the whole life – how one spends one’s time and how one regards and shares their treasure.  Those newly baptized into the newly forming Christian community were not just declaring faith in Jesus, or joining a Church:  their entire lives and way of being was transformed. 

The Damgen family moved into a cohousing complex in Oregon.  Moving into the community was a game changer – both for their mental health and for the health of their family.  They decided to have a third child because they knew the community would support them.  Rachel described a day where one sick kid had finally fallen asleep when another kid needed to be picked up.  Within five minutes, she found a neighbor who could sit in the home while the sick kid slept so she could run to the school.  Kids and elders play and visit together in the common spaces, pets are enjoyed across family lines, and, as one older widow in the community attests, the community helps conquer loneliness and isolation experienced by many in America.[v]

Now, I’m not saying we all need to move to Oregon or we all need to time travel to those early days with Peter and the apostles.  But what I am saying is being a part of Hickory Neck and being a faithful Christian means not just engaging the practices of learning, fellowship, communion, and prayer.  If we take the life and witness of Jesus seriously, our entire lives are transformed here.  How we regard others, how we regard our possessions, and how we regard our worth is changed.  As Matt Skinner says, “Deep care and concern are unavoidable fruit of Easter faith.”[vi]  When Jesus says in our gospel from John today, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,”[vii] Jesus gives that abundant life that through the vehicle of the Church and the Holy Spirit.  The shared gifts, the shared community, the shared sense of care and love is abundant in this place because we inherit the fruit of Easter faith.  Our invitation is not to go and do more work to inherit abundance.  Our invitation is to see the abundance all around us, to celebrate and share that abundance, and to invite others into that overflowing abundance with us.  Amen.

[i] Katia Riddle, “How to be not lonely? ‘Cohousing’ is an answer for some people,” December 1, 2024, as found at https://www.npr.org/sections/shots-health-news/2024/11/29/nx-s1-5210688/lonelieness-epidemic-social-isolation-parenting-cohousing on April 25, 2026.

[ii] Dan Clendenin, “Life Together,” April 30, 2017, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/1362-life-together on April 24, 2026.

[iii] Acts 2.46-47a.

[iv] Willie James Jennings, Acts (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 39-40.

[v] Riddle.

[vi] Matthew L. Skinner, Acts:  An Interpretation Bible Commentary (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2025),50.

[vii] John 10.10b.

Sermon – Luke 24.13-35, E3, YA, April 19, 2026

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Today we hear a portion of Luke’s gospel that we usually label as “The Walk to Emmaus.”  The story is one we recall fondly, perhaps because of the comedic aspect of the disciples not recognizing the resurrected Jesus[i], perhaps because we like the gentle way Jesus walks and dines with the unknowing disciples, or perhaps because this story simply confirms that the Lord is risen indeed!  Whatever our reason, when the familiar story starts, our subconscious starts to check out as we say, “Oh, I know this one.  The walk to Emmaus!”

But this year, this passage has been hitting me a little differently.  As Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple walk to Emmaus on the evening of Easter Sunday, having had their hopes for a victorious Messiah be dashed by Jesus’ death, having heard the astounding tale by the women of an empty tomb and angels, and even having some of the men confirm the empty tomb, and they are now spilling their sob story to a foreigner, a stranger, a migrant[ii] – when they utter four words that have been lingering with me all week, “But we had hoped.”  Cleopas says, “But we had hoped that [Jesus] was the one to redeem Israel.”

Every person here is familiar with this road.  “We have walked [this road].  We’ve lost our way on [this road].  We’ve left [this road] and returned to [this road].”[iii] We call the road the walk to Emmaus, but we know this road as the “But we had hoped” road.  We had hoped the cancer wouldn’t return.  We had hoped the marriage counseling would make things better.  We had hoped our son would come home.  We had hoped for that new job or that college acceptance.  We had hoped the addiction or depression would heal.  We had hoped for different election results.  We had hoped for justice and peace.  We had hoped for our faith to survive.[iv]

So, what happens on this “But we had hoped,” road?  Despite the very grim nature of this road, we see two faithful disciples experience a whole lot of grace.  We first see that Jesus walks alongside, encouraging the questions of the disciples.  The disciples had a clear vision of how things were supposed to go with Jesus, and events did not happen in that way.  They are confused, and they have questions.  And although Jesus seems to scold them for not connecting the dots, he does spend time listening with permission.  The next grace we see is that there is space for risky conversations with Jesus.  Cleopas says some pretty risqué things to this migrant, as the Greek is translated.  He critiques the religious authorities of the time, he confesses his desire that the government would have been upended by Jesus, he proclaims that Jesus was the Messiah.  These are treasonous words said as they are fleeing town after their leader has been executed.  They risk the very conversations we avoid like the plague – religion and politics – because they feel safe with Jesus.

The third grace comes as Jesus reframes the disciples’ trauma.  Jesus listens openly to what the disciples describe, and then he patiently walks them through a biblical exegesis about what, who, and how the Messiah is to be according to the prophets and scripture.  Jesus honors their trauma, and then reframes their trauma in light of the Holy Spirit.  And the fourth and final grace of the “But we had hoped,” road is the intimacy of a meal.  This is not necessarily a Eucharistic feast – just a meal of blessed bread, broken and shared, and then eaten in the intimate way that one did in those days, reclined much more closely than we might in our modern sensibilities of personal space.[v]

Two scholars speak truth into this abundance of grace.  Professor Margaret Aymer argues, “Luke’s story reminds us that our relationship with the resurrected Christ is a relationship of long walks, risky conversations, reframed traumas, and quiet dinners—an intimate relationship between Christ and the church, of words shared and bread broken.”[vi]  Now you may still be thinking, “But we had hoped.”  Scholar Debie Thomas acknowledges, “Yes, we had.  Of course we had.  So very many things are different right now than we had hoped they’d be.  And yet.  The stranger who is the Savior still meets us on the lonely road to Emmaus.  The guest who becomes our host still nourishes us with Presence, Word, and Bread.  So keep walking.  Keep telling the story,” and having risky conversations.  “Keep honoring the stranger.”  Keep returning to scripture.  “Keep attending to your burning heart.  Christ is risen.  He is no less risen on the road to Emmaus than he is anywhere else.  So look for him.  Listen for him.  And when he lingers at your door, honoring your freedom, but yearning to feed you, say what he longs to hear:  Stay with me.”[vii]  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington III, The Gospel of Luke (New York:  Cambridge University Press, 2018), 658.

[ii] Margaret Aymer, “Commentary on Luke 24:13-35,” April 19, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-luke-2413-35-11 on April 17, 2026.

[iii] Debie Thomas, “But We Had Hoped,” Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 194.

[iv] Idea described by Thomas, 194.

[v] Aymer.

[vi] Aymer.

[vii] Thomas, 197.

On the Blessing and Curse of Church…

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.guitarhabits.com/how-to-play-guitar-with-a-band-or-group/

I was listening to a podcast recently where a couple of singer-songwriters were being interviewed.  When talking about the creative process of bringing together artists to create music, one musician described the experience as, “something really communal and almost like church, but for people that want to come together in a way that feels inclusive and safe for all.”[i] 

I understood what the artist was saying, completely.  The church for so many people has been a place of hurt – whether due to an experience around someone’s sexual orientation or gender expression, whether due to a divorce (either personally or watching the church handle the divorce of one’s parents), whether with the way hard conversations were had – with a sense of rigidity and judgment or with an openness to wonder and question.  I know the church has been a place of hurt because so many people have talked to me as a priest about their own resistance to Church because of that hurt.

But despite all my understanding and knowledge about how many times the Church has been the source of curse instead of blessing, the throw-away comparison of the music community this artist had experienced to the experience of Church hit like a gut punch.  Her qualification of Church not being a place that feels safe and inclusive for all hurt my soul so much that I literally felt the wind being knocked out of me. 

Perhaps the comment hurt so much because whereas this singer-songwriter found the Church lacking and found what Church is supposed to be somewhere else, I have spent a lifetime trying to find churches that strive to actually be what Church is supposed to be like – and certainly as a priest, I have tried to shape communities into being that kind of community.  I love being in a place that despite being pretty diverse politically and theologically, can happily celebrate the renewal of vows by a lesbian couple who has found a sense of home and purpose there; where former members of other denominations find a sense of welcome and acceptance that their former church withheld; a church who seeks out the liturgical leadership of young people, whether transgendered, neurodivergent, or just young, because they are some of our best leaders; where retired members show up at the sporting events, dance recitals, or theater performances of younger members; where parishioners with protest pins on their lapels kneel next to parishioners with bumper stickers of opposing viewpoints. 

I never want to minimize the hurt or victimization that people have experienced by the hand of the Church.  And even if I personally did not commit a heinous act of hatred, judgment, or exclusion, I know part of my work is atoning for the sin of the Church universal.  My prayer this week is that those who have only experienced exclusion and a lack of safety in churches might find their way to churches who strive to live another way – to live the love of Jesus fully and authentically.  And it is my prayer that for those of us striving to live in that other way that we remain humble about whether we have actually achieved that safety and inclusivity and keep remembering not the way of church politics, but the way of Jesus. 

[i] Maren Morris, “Brandi Carlile:  Good Hang with Amy Poehler,” March 31, 2026, as found at https://podcasts.musixmatch.com/podcast/good-hang-with-amy-poehler-01jktbqakmf0anjvx2tz394fjv/episode/brandi-carlile-01kn1tcfzgdg73vb0jhswns3xs on April 15, 2026

Sermon – Matthew 28.1-10, ED, YA, April 5, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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In the Episcopal Church we have this tradition of not saying the word “Alleluia” during Lent.  As someone who grew up in the Methodist Church, I was surprised to learn in my first Lent that we don’t sing songs that have the “a word” in them for six weeks, we eliminate liturgical responses that usually contain alleluias, and even our psalms for those six weeks do not contain the forbidden alleluias.  For some churches, they offer a ceremony for the children where they “bury the alleluias” – collecting written versions of the word around the tables at Shrove Tuesday and sealing them away in a box until Easter Day.  I’ve even had families who needed a funeral during Lent who asked if we needed to avoid any music or parts of the liturgy that say alleluia.  And while the answer is, “No, a burial is an Easter celebration,” you can see how ingrained the practice is for those in the Episcopal Church.

Given that taboo, you can imagine how liberating singing, saying, and shouting our alleluias are today.  We have fasted from that word of praise – the word that literally means “Praise the Lord!” – for six weeks.  And now we get to feast on alleluias.  We sing them – a LOT!  We say them in their normal places.  We add them in at the dismissal.  And in some settings, we even ring little bells every time an alleluia is shared.  If we have buried our alleluias, the kids release them with gusto.  This is a day of true celebration and joy.

While for some of us, the alleluias are what we came for:  we came to celebrate Easter, we came to gather with our family and friends and take pictures to remember the day, we came to jump off the Easter feasts we will enjoy later today, we came to be encouraged in a season that for many has been quite discouraging.  We want the alleluias, the egg hunts, the Cadbury eggs, the feast.  Meanwhile, for others, uttering those words of celebration – those alleluias – feels a bit…harder.  We really only need ten minutes of reading the news to know that this is no time in the world for celebration.  We only need ten minutes on social media to see the bickering and us-versus-them discourse to know that an alleluia is not going to wipe away our deep, deep divisions.  We only need ten minutes to recount all the people in our lives, and maybe in our own selves, that are suffering, dealing with a new diagnosis or a loss, who are missing loved ones or a broken relationship, to know that alleluias almost feel inappropriate. 

So how do we receive the gift of an alleluia today or even wholeheartedly shout those alleluias with such torn hearts and spirits?  Well, I like to go back to the text from Matthew’s gospel today.  We learn first that Mary Magdalene and the other Mary do not come to the tomb in joy – they do not come with flowers, with celebration clothing, or even with celebration words.  They come in grief.  They come to mourn.  As scholar Rolf Jacobson says, “The two Marys approach the tomb, expecting to see the tomb – the final resting place of Christ, the last sad chapter in his once promising story, the closing scene in the saddest story ever told.”[i]  So right off the bat, the Marys give us permission to come with all our stuff – our grief, our loss, our anger, our sense of helplessness. 

But perhaps even more encouraging from the text today is what the Marys do after the tremendously, shockingly good news.  We are told, “…they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy…”[ii]  I love that the text suggests that these two emotions – fear and joy – while contrasting, are also tremendously compatible.[iii]  The Marys are tremendously joyful.  They have learned that what awaits is not the saddest story ever told, but a story that ends with joy – with alleluias!  Jesus is risen.  The tomb is empty.  Death does not have the final say.  Alleluia, indeed.

And the women go in fear.  Their alleluias do not negate their fear, do not wipe away all that has been.  They have questions, they have lingering grief for what might have been, they do not know what an empty tomb really means for their everyday life.  Scholar Richard Dietrich describes the two Mary’s fear and joy, “They are altogether too full:  they are afraid for joy.  It is the kind of feeling we have when we fall in love, when we witness the birth of a child, when we lean over the rim of the Grand Canyon, joyous and fearful at the same time.  The women are running, afraid for joy…”[iv]

And that to me is the greatest gift of Easter.  We do not leave here with the sugary promise that the empty tomb makes life roses and sunshine.  We do leave here with an assurance that everything in the world that is hurting our heart will be just fine.  We do not leave here with all the answers about what will happen next in our world, even if we know what comes next in Matthew’s gospel.  But what we do leave here with is permission to be full of joy with our fear.  We leave here with a commission to share the Good News of the empty tomb with people cowering in fear elsewhere.  We leave here with a word lingering on our lips that lets us be gloriously afraid for joy.  Alleluia!  Christ is Risen.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia!  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Commentary on Matthew 28:1-10,” April 24, 2011, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord/commentary-on-matthew-281-10-2 on April 1, 2026.

[ii] Matthew 28.8.

[iii] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Matthew 28:1-10,” April 5, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord/commentary-on-matthew-281-10-14 on April 1, 2026.

[iv] Richard S. Dietrich, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 351.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YA, April 2, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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In 1984, the gay community in London was seeing a lot of violence and oppression by not only the police, but also the community.  While busy with their own activism, one gay activist caught wind of the Coal Miners who were striking in Wales.  Upon watching the violence of the police against the strikers, the activist realized the miners’ suffering was not unlike his own, and that of the gay community.  And so, in an act of solidarity and love, he organized his gay community to raise funds to support the families of the striking miners.

But not everyone was on board.  You see, the miners worked in small towns in which many members of the gay community had once lived.  In those small communities, they had been bullied, taunted, and beaten.  And now someone was asking them to come to their aid.  Many in the gay community could not turn the other cheek.  Why should they return hatred with love?  And as the gay activists soon learned, their help would not be readily received.  Why should the gay community risk further rejection, shame, and violence to support an oppressed people who refused to see their commonality?

Jesus shares a meal with his disciples as he has done on so many occasions.  Only on this night, he is among friend and foe.  He knows Judas is about to betray him.  He knows that Judas is about to put into motion a series of actions that cannot be stopped, that will lead to pain and suffering, and ultimately death.  Looking into Judas’ eyes, Jesus must have felt a betrayal so deep that he had to resist hatred as a human response.  “How could you?” would be an easy question for Jesus to ask in this intimate moment.

But Jesus does not do that.  He does not challenge Judas, or reprimand, or even expose Judas in front of the others directly.  No, he takes off his outer robe, takes a bowl and a pitcher of water, and he washes the feet of everyone in that room – not just the feet of those whom he loves – which would have been a poignantly intimate moment anyway.  But as he makes his way down the table, he shifts his bowl under the dusty feet of Judas; feet as dirty as the rest of them.  He takes the feet of this betrayer of his trust and confidence, and he manages to love Judas as deeply as everyone else.  Tenderly, lovingly, he washes the feet of the enemy of the worst kind – an enemy who was once a friend.  Love in the face of betrayal.

This year, Jesus’ tenderness with Judas has been haunting me.  I do not know about you, but the last thing I want to do is tenderly, lovingly care for my enemy.  Society teaches me to have a strong defense, to protect myself, and even to avoid conflict.  The norm is not to kneel down before a betrayer of trust, to make oneself subservient, and lovingly treat someone who acts so hatefully.  Only a fool makes themselves vulnerable before the enemy.  And yet, that is what Jesus does.  That is how Jesus shows the depths of his love.  Jesus does not use his power to thwart the enemy.  He restrains his power to bring the enemy in – always with the offering of love that can transform any heart.

Tonight, we will engage in the tradition of washing others’ feet.  Many of us get caught up the squeamishness of feet and the vulnerability such intimacy involves.  But something much bigger happens in foot washing than letting go of self-consciousness.  In foot washing we enter into the love of Christ:  washing the feet of those we know well and love; washing the feet of those we know only superficially; washing the feet of those who seem to have their lives totally together and those who we know are suffering; washing the feet of someone who has indeed offended you, and washing the feet of someone with whom you wish to reconcile.

But what we do literally here, we take out figuratively into the world.  Washing the feet of someone you know, or even someone you do not know well in church is one thing.  Washing the feet of the people who are not here is another thing entirely.  Though Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, the inclusion of Judas suggests that loving one another cannot be limited to the community of believers.[i]  All we have to do is imagine an actual enemy, someone who has betrayed our trust or offended our values, someone who oppresses the oppressed, someone who embraces hatred and division, and then we know how hard what Jesus does is tonight.  Tonight, some powerful feelings are set loose:  sorrow, loss, regret, even fear; but also, some powerful feelings are set loose by Jesus:  commitment, conviction, and determination.  God lays aside everything tonight.[ii]  Enter into Christ’s love tonight through the example he sets for us.  Know that God will use the power of this act to change your heart.

A year after that bold move by the gay community in London in the 1980s, much had happened.  Horrible things were said, mean things were done, violence erupted, commitments were betrayed, and help was rejected.  But a year later, even after ultimately losing their cause, the mineworkers did something out of character.  Chapter after chapter of mineworkers loaded onto buses, came to London, and marched for gay rights with their new siblings.  God’s love has tremendous power.  Even if that love cannot transform the heart of a Judas, the witness of that love slowly breaks through and transforms communities.  Join us tonight as we start locally.  Know that God will use your small action here to do bigger work out in the world!  Amen.

[i] Susan E. Hylen, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 275.

[ii] William F. Brosend, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 276.

Sermon – Ezekiel 37.1-14, John 11.1-45, L5, YA, March 22, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Today would be an easy day to hear these dramatic lessons and breath a huge sigh of relief.  We come to these texts today with the burden of literal death:  with friends who have recently passed or with those in the final days of life; with more instances of gun violence, killing teachers and students in schools; with innocent lives being caught in the crosshairs of international power struggles; with activists and immigrants dying in custody.  And that does not even touch the metaphorical death around us:  the death of civility and kindness; the death of being able to work across difference for the common good; the death of a shared sense of morality.  In these days of heavy darkness and death, we want nothing more than a breath of fresh air, a promise of hope and resurrection.

In many ways, that is exactly what we get in our lessons today.  Ezekiel shares a vision of resurrection and restoration.  The valley full of dry bones – presumably representing the people of Israel in exile in Babylon[i] – are brought back to life.  Through Ezekiel’s prophesying, God’s breath is breathed into the bones.  Bones reassemble, sinews and flesh come upon them, and even breath fills their lungs.  Reassembled, the bodies feel bereft in a strange land, but the Lord our God promises them they will be returned to Israel – to their land.  The same can be said of John’s gospel.  Lazarus is dead.  Four days dead.  The common Jewish understanding of the time was that the soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to return; but after those three days, the soul departed for good[ii].  There is no hope for Lazarus.  And yet, in Jesus’ deep love for this man, he weeps.  And then he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Into the next chapter, we even find Lazarus reclining on Jesus – not just alive, but living a life of abundance.

These are texts we want to hear today.  We want Holy Scripture to say, “Everything will be okay.  Everything will go back to normal.  You’re okay.”  And in some ways, that is what the texts seem to say.  The exiled people of Israel will be returned to their land.  The lost brother of Martha and Mary is returned to them in health and vigor.  Suffering is ended for both.  Life is restored for both.  We get to go back to normal.

And yet, I am not sure what our texts today are saying are quite that simple.  For the people of God in exile, Ezekiel’s words are a bit more complex.  The breath God breathes into them helps them remember that even in exile, God is with them.  God is animating them in a foreign land.  Yes, there is a promise to return to the Promised Land.  But we know that any great journey into suffering means that even when we return to “normal,” we are not “normal.”  We are changed.  Health may be restored, land may be restored; but we are forever changed.  The news for Lazarus is a bit more complex too.  Although Jesus brings Lazarus back from the dead, to live an abundant life in the here and now, Lazarus’ resurrection is not forever.  Someday, Lazarus will return to the ground.  We know, like the people in exile, Lazarus’ life after the tomb will not be like his life before.  And we also see in Jesus’ conversation with Martha that Lazarus’ death not just about Lazarus.  Lazarus’ death is merely a foretaste of the resurrection of Jesus.  This return to life is limited to one person.  Jesus’ return to life will change a people.

All of this is to say that today’s good news is good news indeed.  There will be life after this season of deaths.  There will be restored health and community after this season.  There will be renewed strength and vitality after this season.  But we will also be forever changed by this season.  We will see life and the gift of life differently than before.  We will understand our responsibilities for our common life with sharper insight and weight.  We will understand the gift of resurrection in new and deeply moving ways.  The promise of these passages in not simply a return to some “normal.”  The promise of these passages is a journey that will change us all – of valleys with dry bones, of weeping by bedsides, of crying out to Jesus.  The promise of these passages is the destination of Easter.  Not a return to some “normal,” but a new, profound understanding of resurrection in Christ.  In the meantime, Jesus weeps with us.  God is breathing life into us.  And soon, we will know the depths of resurrection life like never before.  Amen.

[i] Kelton Cobb, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 122.

[ii] Leander E. Keck, ed., The New Interpreters Bible, vol. ix (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 687.

Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YA, February 18, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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I have always regarded Ash Wednesday and our Lenten experience as the ultimate self-directed season.  The ashes on our foreheads remind us of how we came into this world alone and we will go out alone.  The disciplines we assume this day for the next six weeks are catered to our own journeys, focusing on what we have discerned we personally need to right our own relationship with God.  When I confess, I am struck by memories of grievances I have committed – images and feelings flashing before me as a particular set of words hits close to home.

But as I read Matthew’s convicting gospel this year, I remembered the wise words of New Testament scholar Karoline Lewis.  All those warnings Jesus makes, “Beware of practicing your piety before others…whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet…when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites…whenever you fast, do not look dismal…”, all of those warnings are not in the singular.  In the original Greek, they are actually in the plural.[i]  So the words are more like, beware of practicing you all’s piety.  Or maybe in Southern speak, “when ya’ll pray…” Jesus is not criticizing or singling out you or you or me.  Jesus is singling out the community of the faithful.

That may sound like semantics, but there is something quite dramatic about Jesus speaking in the plural versus the singular.  Every week in Sunday services, we confess our sins.  But we confess them communally.  Communal confession is an extraordinary event.  While we may feel lost or despondent about our inability to live in the light of Christ as individuals, when we communally confess, a room of voices is saying with you, “Me too!”

One of the things I grieved the most during the pandemic was our inability to gather in person.  I loved that we had and continue to have an online community – especially when people write things in the comments, greet one another, or meet Hickory Neck for the first time.  But our necessary isolation during the pandemic naturally led to a pattern of looking inward – sometimes so much so that we forgot we are not alone – that there is a whole community of faith who is walking this journey with us and struggling just as we are.  There is something quite powerful about listening to the voices of a 7-year-old next to the 77-year-old – the person who looks so put together next to the person who is clearly struggling – the dad with children next to the widow – all confessing together.  Week in and week out, those myriad voices remind us we are not alone.

Of course, part of that reason we get so focused on the self in Lent is because self-interest and self-focus is culturally entrenched in being a modern American.  There is both a blessing and a curse to the American dream – that any individual can achieve their dreams, if they just pull themselves up by their bootstraps – an argument that assumes everyone has bootstraps.  But indigenous New Testament scholar Danny Zacharias argues that we have a lot to learn from indigenous communities in Lent.  Zacharias says, “Traditional Indigenous cultures practice communal living and redistribution of resources, often rejecting the accumulation of wealth as a sign of individual success.  Indigenous communities also have high social expectations upon wealthier individuals to be the providers, especially for communal events.  Generosity and balance are seen as fundamental to a good life.  Indigenous leaders have historically been known for their generosity, with material lack by a leader being a strong sign of virtue and abundant generosity.[ii]  Jesus’ teaching affirms this principle, calling his disciples to a life where wealth is measured not in possessions but in righteousness and relationship with God.”[iii]

So if Jesus is talking to all y’all this Lent, and if we can learn something from indigenous communities this Lent, what does communal Lent look like?   One model might come from Pope Leo this year.  The pope said, “I would like to invite you to a very practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence:  that of refraining from words that offend and hurt our neighbor.  Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves.  Instead, let us strive to measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media and in Christian communities.  In this way, words of hatred will give way to words of hope and peace.”[iv]

Our invitation today as we enter Lent is to remember that the act of reconciliation and redemption does not happen alone.  We all are invited into a holy Lent.  We all are invited into prayer, fasting, and alms giving – even if that fasting looks like fasting from hurtful words.  We all are invited to remember we are dust.  In person, online, and hybrid together, we are not invited into solo, parallel journeys.  Our journeys are strengthened and made possible through the companionship of community.  You are not alone.  We are in this together.  And Jesus lights the way for us all.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, as described on the podcast, “Sermon Brainwave:  #889: Ash Wednesday – February 22, 2023,” February 17, 2023, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/889-ash-wednesday-february-22-2023 on February 17, 2026.

[ii] Randy S. Woodley, Shalom and the Community of Creation: An Indigenous Vision, Prophetic Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 155.

[iii] Danny Zacharias, “Commentary on Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21,” February 18, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ash-wednesday/commentary-on-matthew-61-6-16-21-18 on February 17, 2026.

[iv] Pope Leo XIV, as quoted at https://www.facebook.com/FrJamesMartin/posts/pfbid02uQANdoLUZ94niQnhZDvRN1vSQmSG6BckAQ3HwGm2PpLpGUmZtBCqqpKbijunr9Bwl on February 13, 2026.

Sermon/Annual Address – Matthew 17.1-9, LEP, YA, February 15, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Every January, once the year-end numbers are in, the pledges are finalized, new Vestry members lined up, and priorities established, Hickory Neck holds our Annual Meeting.  We celebrate a year of ministry, honor outstanding service, elect and commission new leaders, and get a glimpse of the year to come.  Of course, Mother Nature had something to say about that this year, and so, we rescheduled, and rescheduled, and are now, finally able to take a moment to pause to celebrate where we have been, who we are, and where we are going. 

On this celebration day for Hickory Neck, the assigned scripture for the day mirrors our celebrations.  Now, I am not promising our Annual Meeting or this Rector’s address will be anything akin to the transfiguration of our Lord:  though we are on the highest point in Toano, our location could hardly be described as a mountaintop, and although we are gathered with Jesus this morning, I cannot promise you will see Jesus in dazzling white – let alone Moses or Elijah.  Nevertheless, the similarities have been grounding for me this week as I too have been looking back, looking at our now, and looking ahead.

The three disciples Jesus takes up with him to the mountain do not experience a healing or a miracle like multiplying fishes and loaves.  Instead, the literal mountaintop experience they have is one of reflection, instruction, and action.  As Moses and Elijah appear and Jesus is transformed, the disciples experience clarity and wisdom about who Jesus is and how Jesus fits into their historical identity as the people of God.  As God speaks, saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” God tells the disciples what they are to do:  to be guided and directed by Jesus.  And then, much to Peter’s chagrin, who would like to stay on that mountain and revel in the majesty of the moment, the disciples do what every community does when they’ve been up to the mountaintop:  they come down.  They come down the mountain and if we kept reading chapter 17 of Matthew, we would learn that they get right back to work, healing the sick and casting out demons.

Your Vestry has been through a similar mountaintop experience.  They looked back at an incredible year of ministry:  they saw new ministries begin, like our programming for Middle School aged children – a first for Hickory Neck in over a decade.  They saw the average of individual pledges of giving and our average Sunday attendance increase.  They saw us welcome 15 new households in the last year to Hickory Neck, those experiencing homelessness housed in our buildings and done in partnership with other faith communities, and children taking a lead in worship.  They saw beds built, monies raised and distributed, animals blessed out in the community, and a lending library for adults and children.  They saw new leaders step up, reinvigorating our ministry to families with young children, donations made to seed a new worship service, and a new organ installation complete to help us expand our ministry of music with a new Minister of Music.  They saw a nonprofit organization, the Virginia Episcopal Real Estate Partners offer us a grant to seed new dreams with our Dream Team.  And maybe most importantly, they saw countless testimonies from you – our parishioners – who shared story after story about how even in the changes and chances of life at Hickory Neck, we continue to be a place where people feel a sense of belonging, of purpose, and of being loved. 

One of the things we talk about a lot in Vestry and among the staff is about Hickory Neck’s size – not so much about our literal numbers, but what being a church our size means.  You see, Hickory Neck is what researchers and experts in the field call a “transition-sized parish.”  Of the five size designations, our designation as transition-sized means that we are the only type in those five sizes of churches who lives in a constant state of tension.  The tension is pretty straightforward and one I imagine each of you can recognize:  the tension is in whether to be a parish who shrinks down in size, returning to a size where everyone knows each other and growth is limited or whether to be a parish who is growth-minded, continuing to push into a parish that can offer programming that both serves the needs of our current members and attracts new members.  Almost every time Hickory Neck experiences tension or conflict, the Vestry and staff recall the underlying tension that impacts our life here – that never goes away, but constantly forces us to make choices about how we want to be in the world. 

And so, this year more than any other in my time here, I watched your Vestry do exactly what God asked the disciples to do:  to listen to Jesus.  And so, rooted in prayer and relationship with Christ, sobered by the reality that we, along with most churches these days, must commit to new models of ministry – new ways of structuring revenue that can enable us to keep offering ministry in this sacred place we have come to love.  And so, rooted in that mountaintop experience, your Vestry and I invite you to come down the mountain with us – to get back to the work we have been given to do with Jesus.  We’ll do that in two short weeks when we host our neighbors experiencing homelessness again.  We’ll do that when our new Minister of Music gets settled and starts making a reality our dream of a vibrant ministry of music program that reaches the wider community.  We’ll do that when our leadership teams put in place the elements that can buttress church growth.  We’ll do that when we care for our members, care for our neighbors, and care for the world around us. 

Coming down the mountain is scary.  Jesus would not have come to Peter, James, and John, placed his hand on their shoulders and said, “Do not be afraid” if coming down the mountain wasn’t scary.  Coming down the mountain does not offer the same coziness as those three dwellings or tents Peter wanted to construct.  But coming down the mountain is the only way to get to the good stuff – to the stuff that feeds us, that feeds others, and that glorifies God.  Coming down the mountain is work, to be sure, but coming down the mountain is work that nourishes our souls and the lives of others, gives us purpose and meaning, and happens with a beautiful sense of belonging.  I am honored to join hands with you and come down the mountain together this year to watch and participate in what Jesus has in store for us.  Amen. 

On Politics, Football, and Love…

11 Wednesday Feb 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.harpersbazaar.com/celebrity/latest/g70287539/bad-bunny-hidden-messages-super-bowl-halftime-performance/

I confess that I did not know much about Bad Bunny when he was announced as this year’s Super Bowl Halftime Show artist.  I had seen clips of him guest starring on sketch shows and talk shows, but knew very little beyond that.  I eventually learned that he sings almost exclusively in Spanish, and that lots of folks were upset by the fact that they, as non-Spanish speakers, would not be able to understand the lyrics.  I did not really share that upsettedness.  Even with minimal Spanish myself, I was more curious about how 1) someone who sings exclusively in Spanish could be such a global success, and 2) what he would do with the global stage the Super Bowl provides.

The minute the show started, I was transported.  I have never traveled to Puerto Rico, but I have been to the Dominican Republic several times with church mission trips, and the sugar cane fields, the guys playing dominoes, and the rhythms of dance were immediately familiar.  As the show unfolded, I found not an artist defending his right to be performing at the Super Bowl, but instead, an artist joyfully welcoming everyone into his culture – and as he would likely say, into our culture.  Toward the end of the show, a billboard in the stadium displayed the words, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.”  And suddenly, I realized Bad Bunny, Benito as he is called by those who know him, took us all to Church. 

You see, in my “purple” congregation, I always tell folks I don’t preach politics – I preach Jesus.  On Super Bowl night, Benito didn’t preach politics – he preached love.  And for those who were frustrated about language, or, more likely, frustrated that a Spanish-speaking singer reminded them of the political strife that the enforcement of immigration regulations has unleashed in our country, I found myself remembering that love, especially Jesus’ command to love, is always political when embraced wholeheartedly.  You cannot commit to love of neighbor without encountering neighbors you would rather not love.  And so, when a worldwide superstar holds up a football with the words, “Together we are America,” he is also holding up a mirror with the question to at least followers of Jesus, “Are you loving your neighbor?”

Most of us do not have a worldwide stage to be agents of Christ’s love.  Very few of us have pulpits from which to preach God’s love.  But all of us, every single day, have the ability and the commission from Jesus to love.  Love God, love self, love neighbor.  Love is hard work – hatred is so much easier.  But being faithful has never been about the easy way.  Being faithful has always meant being a beloved child of God who is then required to gift that love to others.  Sometimes it takes a Spanish-speaking superstar, sometimes it takes a wise grandmother, sometimes it takes an innocent child – but the message is always the same.  We are called to love, and love is so much bigger than we will ever feel comfortable with; and, we do it anyway.  Thank you, Benito, for reminding us whose we are.

On Sharing the Love…

04 Wednesday Feb 2026

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Photo credit: https://www.thebearandthefox.com/easy-peasy-valentine-garland/

With Valentine’s Day approaching, my daughter’s dance studio has welcomed back their “Spread the Love” month.  Paper hearts are cut out and students are invited to write something kind about another student and paste them around the studio.  It sounds very simple, but I loved watching the impact last year.  I was impressed by how eager kids were to write something kind about one of their peers.  But even more noteworthy was watching the kids read something kind about themselves.  As humans, we are often reticent to celebrate our own gifts and talents; and culturally, we do not regularly make time to compliment the giftedness we see in others.  The simple invitation to celebrate each other becomes a profound experience. 

Personally, I have never loved Valentine’s Day, as its focus on romantic love and paired couples creates an environment for uncoupled folks to feel inadequate, lonely, or less than.  The reframing of a day about love like the one at our dance studio reminds me of the kind of love that Jesus asks us to show everyday – not just on Valentine’s Day.  By focusing on spreading love and kindness, the entire community shifts and benefits as both givers and receivers of love.  It is a beautiful expression of the holiest of activities.

So this month, I invite you to spread the love too.  You can certainly cut out some hearts if you like, but whether it’s a text, a phone call, a conversation, an email, or an old school “valentine,” I encourage you to look around at the people in your life – both those people you know and love, and those people who happen into your path.  Take a long look at them and then let them know what about them is special to you – what gifts, or kindnesses do they share with the world for which you are grateful?  Find your mode of communication and then start sharing the love.  I suspect you will find great joy in honoring others. And even if you do not receive similar “valentines” in return, the love will return to you ten-fold.