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

16 Wednesday Sep 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Parenting, Milestones, and Community…

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Photo credit: https://flo.health/being-a-mom/your-baby/growth-and-development/early-walking-babies

When my kids were younger, we delighted in their milestones:  regaining their birthweight, learning to crawl and then walk, eating solid foods, the first real smile, and finally speaking words.  There was a joy in each of those moments, but also a sense that things were okay – that your child was developing in the ways that they were supposed to, and were therefore healthy. 

These days, the milestones are different:  first love interest, first heartbreak, getting a driver’s license, first paycheck, being awarded honors.  I suppose those milestones are markers of healthiness too, and the delight comes just as strongly.  But somehow, these later year milestones are tinged with a hint of coming change.  Before too long our children will launch out into the world and the milestones will be their own to enjoy – celebrated independently of the protective sphere we hosted for so many years.

As I become wistful these days, I think of how God has viewed us over the years.  In Jeremiah 29.11-14, God addresses those who have been exiled from Jerusalem and sent to Babylon.  “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.  Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you.  When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, says the Lord, and I will bring you back to the place from which I sent you into exile.”

As I recall the ways God’s people have journeyed with God over the years, I suppose the milestones never cease – God is constantly seeking relationship and health for us, in all parts of our lives:  in the young formative years, in the youth of our adulthood, and in those middle and late years; in the darkness and what feels like times of failure; in the joys and in the successes.  God is present in all of it.

I wonder if the work we do that we label as “parenting through milestones,” is work that is not limited to biological children and parents.  Much like God journeys with us, God gifts us with people in our lives – friends, family, neighbors, church members, colleagues, and even strangers – who we can shepherd through milestones too.  Though our culture would have us believe we are independent lone rangers responsible for our own success and happiness, Christians community teaches us that we are much more interconnected and gifted the opportunity to journey with others through all those milestones of life.  I wonder who God is inviting you come close to:  to celebrate, to encourage, to console, and to delight.  We are in this work of life together. 

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 – 1 Samuel 16.1-13, L4, YA (10 AM), March 15, 2026

15 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, we built this New Chapel.  We intentionally chose chairs instead of pews so that we could have flexible space – so that we could creatively use and reorient this space, freeing us for the movement of the Spirit.  And sometimes that arrangement is fully realized:  when we clear every chair out of this space for our guests in the Winter Shelter, when we bring in tables for Flip Flop Mass, or when we make this space an event space for Galas and Murder Mysteries.  But even when we’ve tried new accommodations for our growing choir, they have mostly been within the same space – not involving total changes like you likely experienced this morning. 

Leading up to today’s worship, I anticipated some angst.  I knew the choir would be happy, but I wondered:  Where would the households who normally sat there sit?  Who would be displaced when someone sat in their usual spot?  How would the movement of the pulpit change the experience of worship for someone who stayed in a familiar spot?  How long would the disorientation last and how many times might we have to adjust today’s arrangement before we find a new “Hickory Neck normal?”  I have watched you over the years, and I have seen parishioners graciously try to hold a pleasant face when the seat they normally like is taken – especially when the only seats left are on the dreaded front row!

At Hickory Neck, we tout one of our core values as a sense of curiosity – an openness to change.  That was one of the most attractive qualities about Hickory Neck when I was first being considered for the position of Rector here.  In truth, an openness to change and experimentation in churches is rare – a place more often associated with the line, “That’s how we’ve always done it.”  That openness has been a lifeforce for us:  as we’ve changed liturgies, as we’ve welcomed a school onto our property, as we navigated the changes and chances of a pandemic, and as we’ve navigated systemic economic and generational shifts.  That openness is a sacred inbreathing of the Holy Spirit and that openness is life.

And that kind of openness to change is not always easy or natural.  Just look at one of our main characters from the Hebrew Scriptures reading today.  Samuel has been the master of change.  He was deeply opposed to the notion of Israel’s desire for a king.  But God asked Samuel to anoint a king and so he anointed Saul as king.  Saul started out as a good king, but began to fail in the role.  And so, God told Samuel that Samuel would need to anoint a new king.  Samuel obeys again, but not without resistance.  At the beginning of the lesson for today, we find God scolding Samuel, “How long will you grieve over Saul?”  Samuel, who never wanted a king to begin with, became attached – got used to the new “way we’ve always done things.”  And in the face of change, we find Samuel grieving. 

Though we at Hickory Neck might be models of change management and followers of the movement of the Holy Spirit, that does not mean we do not have feelings – that we do not occasionally find ourselves grieving change.  Whether we are adjusting to sharing our property (did you ever notice the children at play signs we installed?), or lamenting the lack of touch during and since the pandemic (ever have someone reach out to hold your hand unexpectantly here?), or dreading the rearrangement of flip-flop mass (remember all the mosquitos, the poorly functioning mics, and the road noise when we gathered outside instead?), or that silly, almost primal, gut punch when something as simple as a seat you’ve been accustomed to is occupied and you need to sit in an unfamiliar space at church.

Here’s what we know though.  Even though Samuel grieves what has been, what he has invested in, what he has risked his reputation for, Samuel follows God’s call anyway.  We cannot underestimate that response.  Samuel was not just overcoming feelings, Samuel was also taking a tremendous risk.  Samuel articulates as much when he tells God Saul will kill Samuel if he finds out he’s anointing a new king.  “To anoint a new king while the old one lives would be seen by Saul as treason…”[i]  Even the elders of the city where the new king will be anointed are trembling when they greet Samuel.[ii]  The danger is palpable, and yet, Samuel goes and he anoints.  And not only does he anoint a new king, he anoints the most unlikely – certainly not the son of Jesse he expected as the first seven sons were presented.

What I love about this story is that this is not just a story that recalls that old timey hymn, “Trust and obey, for there’s not other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.”  No, Samuel’s story is what scholar Donald Olsen calls a dance in leadership.  Olsen explains, “Samuel heard God speak and his first response was protest and inquiry.  Samuel wanted to understand the parameters and responsibilities, the realities and consequences, and gain assurance that God understood them too.  At times, God responded with more detail or altered plans, giving the impression that it was cocreative process.  At other times, God responded, ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it.  Go!’  Samuel now acted in knowledge and faith, walking where God directed and doing as God instructed.  God’s call was not to blind obedience, but cocreated purpose, toward which Samuel walked at a steady and healthy pace.”[iii]  In fact, when describing the cocreative process, the dance of leadership in the church, Olsen adds, “Perhaps that is why David liked to dance so much; he was dancing out the details with God.”[iv]

We are in a season of cocreation, of dancing out the details with God too.  Whether we’re dreaming new ways to envision our property to ensure revenue streams for future generations of Hickory Neck, whether we are addressing immediate budget gaps with creative funding sources that can buttress our generous annual pledging, or whether we are simply rearranging furniture, the work we are doing not simple obedience, but a beautiful dance of working out the details with God.  That dance means God will push us out of our comfort zones, that sometimes God will give us insight and sometimes God will just tell us to go, and that sometimes we and others will do things that initially seem scary.  But what we know, and why we value curiosity and change so much at Hickory Neck, is that dancing with God means moving in ways that release joy and satisfaction in ways that our bodies cannot find outside the dance floor.  Amen.

[i] Carole A. Newsom, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 101.

[ii] Newsome, 101.

[iii] Donald P. Olsen, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 102.

[iv] Olsen, 102.

On the Myth and Magic of Advent…

10 Wednesday Dec 2025

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Photo credit: https://christchurchofaustin.org/announcement2/

As a pastor, I am constantly preaching about savoring the quiet anticipation of Advent.  We even offer Advent Lessons and Carols, which has a more contemplative note than its celebratory sibling, Christmas Lessons and Carols.  But in everyday life, I am just as vulnerable as anyone else to the secular chaos in which Advent lives.  I find myself running kids around to obligations and performances, juggling calendar conflicts with all the special holiday offerings, and even add commitments myself because I want to maintain annual traditions.  Nothing about life outside of church feels quiet and centered.

I think is why I was so grateful for the gift of a minimally scheduled Saturday this past weekend.  Both professionally and personally the calendar was mostly clear – I even reserved the TV for watching a basketball game which I rarely can do.  As my daughter and I settled in, she proposed doing a puzzle together – an activity we always say we’ll do but somehow never get around to doing.  And so evolved an afternoon of sports watching, puzzle assembling, and the kind of conversation that can only happen when you make unstructured space for it.  When I got to close of the day, I realized that while a part of me felt guilty for not being particularly “productive” (no catching up on work, no doing household chores, no addressing Christmas cards), I marveled at how spiritually and emotionally productive the day felt with my daughter.

I know finding even moments of quiet anticipation in Advent can feel impossible these days.  There are so many things vying for our attention – many of them quite good and important.  But I wonder if you might be able to carve out some unscheduled time in these weeks left of Advent.  They may have to be in the car on your way to something, or while walking on the treadmill, or saying goodnight to the children.  Maybe it means making your way to church even if you have other invitations. Whenever you can find that sacred space, I promise the life and love of Christ is waiting for you in the stillness.  God is already there.  You are invited to say hello.

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

01 Wednesday Oct 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, April 20, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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I grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina with a lot of evangelicals.  I learned quickly that if I wanted to get along, I had to get really comfortable with my response to the question, “Have you been saved?”  If you have been around the Episcopal Church for long, you will realize that we do not really use that kind of language to describe our faith experience.  But as a teenager, where the prominent local church had “Jesus Saves” blazed in red neon on the side of the church, I got used to that kind of faith language – the desire for certainty, clarity, and conviction.  Now, I am not sure my evangelical friends really believed me when I said, “Yes!” to their question about whether I was saved or not, but “Yes!” was the answer for which they were searching.

The funny thing is, on Easter Sunday, Episcopalians seem to be pretty steeped in certainty, clarity, and conviction too.  Just listen to our songs:  Jesus Christ is Risen Today and Christ is Alive – both pretty declarative titles.  And, after the sermon, go back and count how many times in our liturgy we will say, “Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed.”  After almost two thousand years have passed, we are pretty clear on what Easter means:  the Easter empty tomb is the answer to the cross of Good Friday.  All that has been forsaken is redeemed.  Jesus is alive.  The cross does not have the final say.

For a faith community, across all kinds of denominational differences, who seems so very certain, clear, and convicted about Easter, nothing about our gospel story we heard this morning from Luke has that same certainty, clarity, and conviction.  The women who come to the tomb early Easter morning don’t come in their celebration finery, with bells to ring alleluias.  They come bearing spices to finish the final burial rituals of what they know to be a dead Jesus.  When they find the empty tomb, they are entirely perplexed, even though, as the men in dazzling clothes remind them, Jesus had told them that he would rise again.  And when the women finally start to put the pieces together, and Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and the other women go to tell the apostles, these guys don’t believe them.  Even Peter, who goes to double check, just in case the women aren’t totally crazy, doesn’t go out proclaiming Jesus’ victory.  One scholar tells us, “There is an alternate translation of verse 12 – a reading where Peter does not simply ‘go home,’ but wonders ‘to himself’ or ‘with himself’ at what he has seen.”[i]  I am not sure any of the actors in today’s gospel would be able to confidently say in our liturgy today, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

As ambiguous as our text feels, I kind of love the ambiguity today.  This Lenten season and Holy Week have been rough.  The world outside these walls feels like complete chaos, with structures, lives, and systems being totally upended.  And while that may feel like a necessary action by some, the experience of that action has been destabilizing and debilitating.  In truth, I had no problem this past week walking the path to Jerusalem, hearing of my sinfulness and the corporate sinfulness of world, because the stories of betrayal, abandonment, jockeying for power, shameful dehumanization, the degradation of human life feel very contemporary – not a set of stories from millennia ago, but stories with modern parallels to today. 

The harder parallel for me has been turning to Easter joy – to confidently saying, “The Lord is risen indeed!” when resurrection life feels less real than crucifixion life.  So, I have no problem imagining coming to Church this Sunday with my burial spices, because we’ve been doing a lot of burials lately.  I have no problem imagining the faithful forgetting good news because I have a hard time clinging to the Good News these days.  And I have no problem imagining men not believing women (although don’t get me started because that is probably a whole different sermon!) – I have no problem imagining those apostles not believing the witnesses because when all you hear is bad news, sometimes we lose the ability to hear and receive good news.

The good news is, the Church makes room for all of us today.  The church makes room for those of us so caught up in our grief that we cannot see life in the midst of death.  The Church makes room for those of us so focused on the present moment that we cannot remember Christ’s promises for us.  The Church makes room for those so convinced of their own wisdom that we cannot hear wisdom from those unlike us.  And the Church makes room for those who still have certainty, clarity, and conviction that Jesus saves and there is light in the darkness.  The Church makes room for all of us because we need each other – we need those who are questioning and those who are certain; we need those who see the complicated nature of life and those who have real clarity; we need those who are unsure and those who are convicted.  We need each other because we hold each other accountable.  We are not an either-or kind of Church:  we are a both-and Church.  We hold in tension the reality that Christ is alive with the reality that sometimes we feel like Christ is not alive.  We hold in tension the conviction that Jesus Christ is risen today with the conviction that we sure would like the world to stop feeling like Christ isn’t risen. 

By honoring the both-and, we honor the real Easter experience of Luke’s gospel.  We honor the fullness of our humanity that is probably a little too human to fully understand the divine, sacred thing that happens on this day.  And we honor our longing for some Easter joy in what has felt like a long, dark winter.  Together, we get there a little more honestly, a little more boldly, and with a little more joy that we might on our own.  Christ is risen – we sure hope the Lord is risen indeed!  Amen.

[i] Jerusha Matsen Neal, “Commentary on Luke 24:1-12,” April 20, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord-3/commentary-on-luke-241-12-10 on April 18, 2025.

Sermon – Mt. 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YB, February 14, 2024

21 Wednesday Feb 2024

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This morning, I got a fun text from a friend.  “Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!” she exclaimed.  I have seen all sorts of humor about the confluence of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday this year.  From questions about whether the clergy might be making the sign of a heart instead of the sign of a cross with our ashes tonight (sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping that wasn’t just a rumor); to a meme from the National Church that says  “You can’t have VaLENTines with the LENT”; to actual candy conversation hearts that say “U R Dust,” “Ashes 2 Ashes,” or “Repent” instead of the traditional “Be Mine,” “True Love,” or “Kiss Me.”  Even my own daughter petulantly asked me, “Do we always have to celebrate Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day??”

Though the humor has been fun, what lurks under the surface is a discomfort with talking about death – especially on a day meant to be for celebrating the happiness of love.  But part of my job as a priest is to bring a certain sobriety about death to the world – no matter the day.  That is not to say that I am a party pooper or that I don’t like a good box of chocolates myself, but my role as a priest is to name the truth about what happens in death – earthly death and reunion with our Lord in eternal life.  In fact, the Church is one of the few places left in the world that openly and regularly talks about death.  In a world that encourages anti-aging treatments, who has desensitized us to death as we have moved away from an agrarian lifestyle, and whose medical advances have extended life much longer than before, we learn that death can be conquered and should be fought at all costs.

Pushing against this secular understanding of death, the Church gives us Ash Wednesday – even on Valentine’s Day.  The Church looks at our flailing efforts to preserve life and as we humbly come to the altar rail, rubs gritty ash on our heads and says, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  There is no, “Don’t worry about death; you’ll be fine!”  Instead, those grave words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” echo in our heads, haunting our thoughts.  Every year the Church reminds us of the finite amount of time we have on this earth – even on a day seems like we should be talking about love and life.

This is why I love Lent so much.  The Church dedicates forty days to a time where we cut to the chase and honestly assess our relationship with God.  We take a sobering look at our lives, a sobering look that could be reserved only for the time of death, and we discern what manifestation of sinfulness has pulled us away from God.  Our Prayer Book defines sin as “the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.”[i]  Lent is the season when we focus on repentance from our sin – not just a feeling guilty about our sinfulness, but eagerly seeking ways to amend those relationships and turn back toward resurrection living.  What most people get only at the time of death, we are given every year at the time of Lent:  a time of sobering realignment. 

This is why we get Matthew’s gospel lesson on Ash Wednesday.  As we begin our sobering Lenten journey, the gospel lesson names disciplines and practices that can help us along the way.  Jesus names those ancient practices that have brought people back to God for ages – giving alms, praying, and fasting.  Each one of these practices has ways of bringing us closer to God by shaking up our normal routines.  Of course, any Lenten practice can have the same effect.  Giving up caffeine, reading a daily devotional, or reconnecting with nature are equally valid ways to shake up our routines enough to notice the ways in which we have become more self-centered than God-centered.  Although Jesus names the disciplines of alms giving, prayer, and fasting, the actual discipline itself is not the issue for Jesus.  The issue is our intentions in our practice. 

This is why we hear Jesus labeling so many people as hypocrites in our gospel lesson today.  Jesus is less concerned about what disciplines we assume and is more concerned about the authenticity behind those disciplines.  Jesus is not arguing that private acts are authentic and public ones are inauthentic by nature.  What matters is the desire and motivation behind these practices.  We have all seen this in action.  One of my favorite comediennes jokes about this very behavior in one of her shows.  She talks about how people sometimes use prayer requests as a means of gossip.  In one of her jokes, she has the gossiper of the church inviting people into a prayer circle so that they can pray for someone in the church who just got pregnant, even though the news was supposed to be private.  We all know the kind of hypocritical behavior Jesus is addressing.  This kind of behavior will never get us to the sobriety we need to right our relationship with God and others.

Of course, any kind of practice we take up this Lent can be corrupted.  The giving up of a particular kind of food can be more for weight loss than a connection to God.  The taking up of a volunteer activity can be to fulfill a requirement for something else.  Whatever we do this Lent, that deprivation or incorporation is meant to help us restore our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  So, when we give up a food, instead of glorying in the fact that we lost a few pounds, we can see how that food has become an emotional crutch that keeps us from leaning on God and others.  When we take on a new prayer routine, we slowly begin to see how little time we give to God in our daily lives.  Whatever our practice, Jesus is concerned that authenticity be at the heart, so that we can more readily prepare for Good Friday and Easter.[ii] 

And so, in order to shake us out of our self-centered, sinful, distant ways, especially on a day for love, Ash Wednesday gives us death.  Ash Wednesday grittily, messily, publicly reminds us of our death, and then leaves us marked so that we can humbly enter a Lenten reconnection with God.  Ash Wednesday throws death in our faces so that we can wake up in a world that would have us keep striving for longevity of earthly life or superficial happiness instead of striving for intimacy with God here and now.  This Ash Wednesday, our ashes are the outward reminder of the sobering journey we now begin, because only when we consider our own death can we begin to see the resurrection glory that awaits us at Easter.  My prayer is that our journey this Lent is not one of painful guilt or loveless deprivation, but instead one of glorious reconnection with our creator, redeemer, and sustainer.  Amen.      

[i] BCP, 848.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 24.

On Celebrating Life, Death, and Movies…

04 Wednesday Oct 2023

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Photo credit: https://www.cnn.com/2023/09/28/tech/netflix-dvd-rental-movies-ending/index.html

Well, it finally happened.  Netflix’s DVD business closed last Friday.  Now I recognize that acknowledging I still received DVDs from Netflix may make me seem old-fashioned.  Even a contemporary exclaimed recently, “Do people even have the equipment to play DVDs anymore?!?”  I took a good ribbing, but the truth is I love movies, and Netflix’s DVD business allowed me to watch movies that were not available via streaming services.  I was constantly finding new gems, and still had over 100 movies in my queue that I hoped to watch some day.

For those of us old-timers still watching DVDs, the closing of Netflix’s DVD branch has been tinged with nostalgia and a tiny bit of grief.  Over the course of 18 years, I watched 667 films, each story sparking my imagination, eliciting pleasure, sorrow, excitement, indignation, laughter, and hope.  Obviously there will be other ways for me to revel in the artistry of filmmaking, but there is a certain finality to the closing of this chapter. 

Despite my wistfulness, I commend Netflix for the way they have handled this change.  Instead of wallowing in grief, or attempting to apologize for market changes beyond their control, instead, they have handled this “death” with grace and joy.  Knowing the closing was coming, this year they used their iconic mailing envelopes to feature celebratory artwork honoring how a whole generation has been shaped by their service.  On the week of their closure, the sent a “gift” to every member – a summary of the highlights of our membership – what movies we had watched each year, milestones in our membership, and even the list of movies in our queue in case we want to find another way to see them.  Instead of a death, it has felt like a celebration of life.

In a lot of ways, it has reminded me of the ways the Episcopal Church approaches death.  When someone we love passes, we use the burial office to celebrate life – certainly the life of the one who has died, but especially the promise of eternal life promised in Jesus Christ.  But I’ve been thinking about it over this last week, and the Church honors “mini-deaths” all the time:  the ending of a ministry that is no longer needed or effectively utilized, the retirement of a ministry leader after a successful tenure, or the blessing of a parishioner or staff member who moves away from the community.  All those transitions can be hard because they make us remember fondly the ways ministry blessed us in the past.  But those transitions are also often the source of new life:  a new ministry we could never have imagined five years ago, a new leader whose fresh ideas opens up new opportunities, and new members who shape and mold us into a new community.

I wonder what things feel like they are dying in your life right now – what things you thought would always be there are undergoing change.  Where might the Holy Spirit be inviting you to see new shoots of growth in the midst of something withering on the vine?  How might those “mini-deaths,” be tremendous gifts to you or your community?  How might we take a cue from Netflix, and find ways to celebrate those endings with dignity and joy?  I am grateful for the ways a secular business is helping me see the sacred in our own life cycles.  Let’s celebrate together!

On Loss and Light…

20 Wednesday Sep 2023

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

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

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

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

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