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Sermon – Matthew 27.1-23, Ecumenical Lenten Series, March 15, 2023

29 Monday May 2023

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When the clergy of our Ministerium gathered and decided to slowly walk through the passion narrative, a narrative that most of us normally consume in one service – either on Palm Sunday or Good Friday – I thought it would be great fun to dive deeply into the text, tarrying longer on the parts that seem to whizz by otherwise.  I was excited to find hidden gems, or maybe moments of grace and goodness.  But I confess, so far, the deep dive has been harder than I imagined.  I have begun to wonder if we churches do not read the entire passion narrative in one sitting because we know how hard the text is:  so we read the text in its fullness, like chugging awful tasting medicine in the hopes of getting the foul experience over with as quickly as possible.

Of course, when I started reading our portion of the text for this evening, I thought maybe there was hope after all.  The text starts off with such promise.  The very first words from the New Revised Standard Version are, “When morning came…” or, even more promising, in the paraphrase from The Message, “In the first light of dawn…”  Immediately, my mind filled with the words from that old hymn, “Morning has broken,” with lyrics like, “Praise for the morning!… Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden… Praise with elation, praise every morning, God’s recreation of the new day!”  Surely the inbreaking of light will mean the inbreaking of hope and renewal.  Those things that happened in the cover of darkness:  Judas’ betrayal, disciples unable to keep watch and pray with Jesus, disciples scattering as Jesus is arrested, false testimonies, and finally, the gut-wrenching betrayal of faithful Peter – surely in the first light of dawn, in the sweetness of the wet garden, the light will drive away the darkness.

But the morning light of this text does not overcome this day – at least not in the ways the light comes Easter morning.  First, we have to walk through the darkness and light of Jesus’ final day.  We start with Judas.  What feels like redemption is coming for Judas.  The NRSV says Judas repented, but this is not the same word used to describe what Peter does.  Matthew is quite careful not to use the same word in the original Greek for repentance.  Instead of the word for “repent” or “turn around,” the word in Greek for Judas means “regret or “change one’s mind.”[i]  Somehow, Judas’ actions happening in the first light of dawn makes them more devastating.  His hanging himself brings up for us all sorts of feelings, and quite frankly, some of the Church’s more damaging teachings about suicide.  But in Judas, darkness and light get muddled.  Theologian Stanley Hauerwas argues, “What Judas did is not beyond the forgiveness enacted in Jesus’s crucifixion.  Indeed, Judas’s betrayal can be remembered because it is not and cannot be the last word about Judas’s life or our own.  The last word about Judas or us is not ours to determine because the last word has been said in the crucifixion.  The challenge is not whether Jesus’s forgiveness is good, but whether any of us, Judas included, are capable of facing as well as acknowledging that, given the opportunity, we would be willing to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.”[ii]

In the light of day, as the morning comes, the text seems to tell us that the darkness of night might be dispelled after all.  Pilate’s wife appears in the midst of Jesus’ trial – something that no other gospel describes – and tells of how Pilate should have nothing to do with Jesus.  She, like so many others has been warned in a dream:  the magi early on in Matthew, Joseph, Jesus’ father, and now Pilate’s wife.  In all these cases, while people scheme to destroy Jesus, even Gentiles receive communication from God in dreams to preserve Jesus’ life.[iii]  But today is not a day of Easter light – or a day of near misses like in Jesus’ birth.  Instead, the darkness overcomes.  Even though Pilate knows Jesus is innocent, he cannot muster the political strength to follow what he knows is right.  And so, Pilate, whose name in own creeds remind us that Jesus was killed in a specific time and space, becomes complicit with the darkness even as the light of morning tries to break through.

The final mingling of darkness and light comes as the crowds get swept into the guilt of this day.  Pilate cleverly offers the faithful an alternative – to release Jesus the Messiah or to release Jesus Barrabus, the murderous rebel.  Caught up in the fervor stoked in the darkness, the people’s demand of Barabbas’ release feels like all the light goes out of the story.  Those words, “Let him be crucified,” feels like the shroud of darkness and our human failure is complete.  But even in this darkest moment, all light is not lost.  What we forget in this moment is that when Jesus dies, Barabbas goes free.  Scholar N.T. Wright tells us, “Barabbas represents all of us.  When Jesus dies, the brigand goes free, the sinners go free, we all go free.  That, after all, is what a Passover story ought to be about.”[iv]

We will not get the brilliance of that old hymn, Morning Has Broken, until Easter.  God’s recreation cannot happen until the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Famed preacher Thomas Long tells a story about a congregation who many years ago built a small and secluded chapel for prayer and meditation.  Inside that little chapel, they placed twelve wooden chairs, each inscribed with the name of one of the disciples.  You want to know which of the chairs is the most heavily worn from use?  Judas’ chair, like stone step that shows its overuse, is the most worn, the most relatable, perhaps the most hopeful for visitors to that old chapel.[v] 

We are not at Easter in this Lenten journey.  In fact, most of our days even outside of this ritual time feel closer to the darkness of Lent than the lightness of Eastertide.  But that does not mean that all our days do not have glimpses of light.  Even on this darkest day, when Jesus’ fate is sealed and the worst thing will happen, light keeps fighting through.  Whether in Judas’ remorse, whether in the witness of outsiders around us, or whether in the grace given to those who do not deserve grace, even on this darkest of days, the morning comes. 

Our invitation this Lent is to open our eyes to the light.  Judas, Pilate’s wife, even Barrabas invite us to seek the light, to name the light, to be the light.  We will never master the perfection of Easter Sunday where the sweetness of the wet garden makes us praise with elation.  So maybe our song this night is not Morning has Broken, but another gospel hymn, Walk in the Light.  When the darkness threatens to overcome, we raise our voice, “Walk in the light, Beautiful light, Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright, Shine all around us by day and by night, Jesus is the light of the world.”  Jesus is here, in our sinfulness, in our resistance, in our hardheartedness, giving us beams of light to walk in – beautiful light where mercy shines bright.  We can walk in the light together because Jesus is that light.  Amen.

[i] Douglas R.A. Hare, Matthew, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1993), 314.

[ii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 230-231.

[iii] Thomas G. Long, Matthew:  Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 312.

[iv] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 178.

[v] Long, 310.

Sermon – John 1.29-42, EP2, YA, January 15, 2023

15 Wednesday Feb 2023

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In my first position as a Rector, we had a wonderful facilitator for one of our Vestry Retreats.  The first question she asked is for us to tell her what we love about our church.  Everyone thought for a minute and then slowly we shared stories of what brought us to the church, what was meaningful, or what keeps us coming back.  It was a quiet, thoughtful conversation, as people really pondered why we were there.  Then the retreat leader asked us to tell her about the best meal we ever ate.  Well, the mood of the room totally flipped, and people’s faces lit up as they described succulent meals, decadent desserts, and mouthwatering food experiences.  We laughed and delighted in the stories as people gesticulated their enthusiasm and were almost tripping over one another as we remembered other amazing meals we have had.

Once we settled down, the facilitator asked us to note the total difference in our descriptions between what we love about our church and what we love about the best food we ever ate.  The question was not meant to shame us (though we did feel a little sheepish), but to help us see how blocked we sometimes get when talking about our love for our church.  Clearly, we have the capacity to witness – albeit to witness to an amazing meal.  But something about culture mores or maybe a history with a bad evangelism encounter makes us much more reticent to invite others into our joy.

I have been thinking about that hesitancy or inability this week as I read our gospel story today.  Although we always call him John the Baptist, one scholar suggests that in John’s gospel, John the Baptist really should be called John the Witness:  because that’s the emphasis of the fourth gospel – not John’s work of baptizing, but John’s work of witnessing to Jesus’ identity.[i]  In the portion of the fourth gospel we read today, John the Witness is a little like someone raving about the best thing they ever ate.  We are told that after the officials spend time inquiring about John’s identity, the next day, John is found shouting after the approaching Jesus, “‘Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!  This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’”  John’s cheerleading continues the next day when he sees Jesus again and says, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!”  John is so passionate about Jesus that even John’s followers drop John and follow after Jesus:  a result of which I have to believe John is wholly supportive.

Now I imagine you are sitting there, tensing up a bit, waiting for me to tell you to go get a megaphone and some pom poms because we have some witnessing to do!  The good news is your only partially right.  Here is what I know.  You came here today (either in person or online) for a reason.  Maybe this community helps you find a sense of purpose and meaning.  Maybe this community brings you a sense of comfort and belonging.  Maybe this community is helping you find you way to or enrich your relationship with Jesus.  Whatever the reason, that reason is your witness.  That reason is this beautiful, sacred thing, that when you do not share with others is like refusing to give a gift to others.  I know you may feel awkward, or like you don’t have “holy enough” words, or that you might even be rejected or disdained.  The truth is your words do not even really matter when you are witnessing – what will matter is the way your face transforms when you talk about how this place has impacted your walk with God.  And if using the word witness makes your stomach tense, then use the word invitation.

So, your invitation today is to begin embracing a practice of invitation.  Maybe you have no qualms pulling out that megaphone and pom poms for Jesus like John the Witness.  Maybe you will be you will be like Andrew in our passage today and drag your brother or friend along with you to church with a forceful, “Come on!”  Or maybe your invitation will be as soft as Jesus’ to the new disciples asking questions, who simply says, “Come and see.”[ii]  Someone in your own journey did that for you.  Maybe a long time ago or maybe very recently.  Maybe their words were loud and proud or maybe they were soft and encouraging.  But something in their countenance changed that made you want to see more.  Our invitation today is to share that same light with others, inviting them to come and see this place where you invest your time, your gifts, and your treasure.  Your invitation is to not hoard the gift of this place, but to share the gift of this place and your faith with others.  Amen.

[i] Karline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Bibilcal Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 27.

[ii] Greg Garrett, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 265.

On the Blessings of Family – Biological and Chosen…

05 Thursday Jan 2023

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Graphic Credit: https://www.thecolonygroup.com/introducing-your-children-to-your-family-wealth/

This past week, I spent hours delighting in my children’s relationships with their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Whether it was their uncontained excitement about a sleepover with their aunt and uncle, the deeply contented smiles of grandparents engaging in conversation with our children, the similarly-aged cousins who have never met but act thick as thieves within minutes of time together, or the admiration of the older new favorite “cousin” (a girlfriend who my children are desperately hoping marries into the family – no pressure though!). 

Living relatively far away from our family, I find watching my children with their grandparents and aunts and uncles in person to be a tremendous blessing.  I get to see our children through fresh eyes, watch their behavior transform, and see healthy relationships being forged that are totally separate from their relationship with me.  As our children age, I see how important these separate and special relationships are for all of us:  for me as a parent, for the children as individuals growing into adults, and for the extended family members.  I never lived close to my own grandparents and extended family, so perhaps others experience that blessing all the time.  But as I come off some holiday time with family, I am acutely aware of the importance of these relationships beyond what I and their father can provide.

I am usually quite loathe to call churches “families” because families also bring lots of baggage.  In fact, for some, church provides a safe haven their biological families did not.  However, churches can do what families do when at their best.  Part of why I am so committed to having my own children in church (even though it may appear obligatory as the community’s priest) is because we live so far from our biological families.  I want the elders of our church to dote on my children the same ways in which their grandparents do – in part because I know those relationships are just as life giving for the seniors as they are for the children.  I want the mid-age parents to be the cool aunts and uncles that my children can go to when they are tired of their own mom and dad – in part because those same parents may sometimes feel like parenting failures with their own children but can use the reminder that they are beloved and needed beyond their immediate family.  And I want my children to feel a sense of kinship with the other children of church – the cousins they rarely see, but for whom they can serve as role models at church.  The very intergenerational nature of church is a major reason why church is so important to our lives.

We live in a time when families are often dispersed, where work or service calls us from our extended families, or where, if we are blessed with immediate family nearby, we have neighbors who are not.  That reality became painfully poignant during the pandemic, when our sense of isolation grew, families with children felt unbearable weight as they became teachers, parents, and a little of everything else, and elders missed gathering with their own biological families.  As we emerge from this pandemic, if you have yet to come out of that internalized, isolated state, I invite you to engage (or reengage) with a church community.  It certainly will not be perfect – no community or family is.  But it will be a place of life and light, of encouragement and engagement, and of purpose and pleasure.  You are welcome here!

Sermon – Matthew 11.25-30, St. Francis Feast, YC, October 2, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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Today we honor the life of St. Francis of Assisi.  Francis is one of the most popular and admired saints of all time.  Most of us know the highlights of his story:  born the son of a wealthy man in 1182; had a conversion experience and devoted his life to Lady Poverty; shaped monastic and lay devotion; was a friend to all God’s creatures – being known to have preached to the birds.

But the story I like most is the story about St. Francis and the Wolf.  According to legend, there was a wolf that was terrorizing the town of Gubbio, killing and eating animals and people.  The villagers tried to fight back, but they too died at the jaws of the wolf.  Francis had pity on the townspeople and went out to meet the wolf.  When Francis found the wolf, he made the sign of the cross, and said, “Come to me, Brother Wolf.  In the name of Christ, I order you not to hurt anyone.”  In response, the wolf calmly laid down at Francis’ feet.  Francis then went on to explain to the wolf how he was terrorizing the people and other animals – all who were made in the image of God.  The wolf and Francis then made a pact that the wolf would no longer harm the townspeople and the townspeople would no longer try to hurt the wolf.  The two traveled into town to explain the pact they had formed.  The people were amazed as Francis and the wolf walked side-by-side into town.  Francis made the people pledge to feed the wolf and the wolf pledge not to harm anyone else.  From that day on, the wolf went door to door for food.  The wolf hurt no one and no one hurt the wolf; even the dogs did not bark at the wolf.[i]

What I love about this story of St. Francis is that the story is about reconciliation and relationship.  At the beginning of the story the town and the wolf are at an impasse – the wolf is hungry and getting attacked; the people are afraid and are lashing out.  What Francis does for both parties is shock them out of the comfortable.  For the wolf, no one has addressed the wolf kindly – they have either shut the wolf out or actively tried to kill him.  For the people, the wolf has not asked for help – he has simply and violently taken what he needed and wanted.  Francis manages to shock the wolf first – not through violence or force, but with the power of love and blessing.  By giving a blessing in the name of God, Francis is then able to implore the wolf to reciprocate with love.  Francis also manages to shock the village – not with a violent victory, but with a humble display of forgiveness and trust.  By walking into town with a tamed wolf at his side, Francis is able to encourage the town embrace, forgive, and care for the wolf.  Francis’ actions remind both parties that unless their relationships are reconciled, unrest and division will be the norm. 

The funny thing about this story is that the story is pretty ridiculous.  I mean, how many of us go around talking to wild animals, blessing them with the sign of the cross, expecting anything other than being attacked?  We will never really know whether the story is true.  But like any good Biblical story, whether the story is true is hardly the point: the point is that the stories point toward “Truth” with a capital “T.”  What this story teaches is peace and reconciliation only happen through meeting others where they are.  We cannot expect great change unless we are willing to get down in the trenches – to go out and meet that destructive wolf face-to-face.  The other thing this story teaches is relationships are at the heart of peace work.  Only when the wolf and the town begin to get to know each other and begin to form a relationship with one another can they move forward. 

This is the way life is under Jesus Christ.  In our gospel lesson today, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  Jesus’ words have layered meaning.  The first meaning we all catch is that Jesus offers us rest and refreshment.  Jesus encourages us to come to him, to cast our burdens and cares upon him, and to take rest, to take Sabbath in Christ.  Our souls will find peace in Christ Jesus.  The second meaning is that peace in Christ Jesus is not without work.  Jesus does not say come unto me and relax forever in happy retirement.  Jesus says we will still have to take on a yoke – the burden of disciple living.  Luckily, that burden of being Christ’s disciple will not be burdensome – it will be light.  Finally, not only will Jesus make the workload “light,” as in not heavy.  Jesus will also make us “light” – as in lights that shine into the darkness and refuse to allow the shadow to overwhelm.   We become the light when we work for reconciliation in our relationships with others. 

That is why we do a couple of special things today.  First, we ask for blessing on our animals – that God might help our relationship with our pet be one of blessing and light.  Second, we come to Jesus for Sabbath rest – that God might renew us on this Sabbath day, use the rest to fill us with light, and renew our commitment to be agents of reconciliation, gladly putting on Christ’s yoke.  Amen.

[i] Jack Wintz, “St. Francis and the Taming of the Wolf,” as found at https://www.franciscanmedia.org/franciscan-spirit-blog/st-francis-and-the-taming-of-the-wolf on September 30, 2022. 

Sermon – Isaiah 58.9b-14, P16, YC, August 21, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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Last night, we baptized Becky Breshears in the waters of the Chickahominy River.  When most of us think of baptism, we imagine the baptism of an infant or child, someone for whom godparents make promises to raise in the life of the faith, much like we did with baby Olivia a few weeks ago.  The sacrament of baptism for a child is certainly considered being fully initiated into the family of Christ, but we make pronouncements and promises on behalf of the baptized.  And as the baptized grows up, we continue to shepherd and guide her, answer her questions, and help her claim her faith as her own.  There is an endearing, almost romantic, notion to baptism, full of idealism and hope. 

At least, that seems to be true in Episcopal Churches, where we quite primly and gently pour water from beautiful fonts over the heads of babies – the messiest part being if the water accidently runs into the baby’s eyes.  Of course, adult baptism is totally normal in our tradition too, we just do not do adult baptism as frequently.  When we do adult baptism, we become much more like other denominations, who have always understood baptism to be a mature proclamation of one’s own faith.  In some ways an adult baptism is more exciting because an adult baptism is not about something we hope and pray will develop into a faithful life, but adult baptism is the fully developed proclamation now – a set of pronouncements and promises on one’s own behalf.  An adult baptism is bold, dramatic, and, especially in instances like last night, much messier!

But adult baptism, especially in the Episcopal Church, are not about proclaiming one has her faith life all figured out – that she has some sense of earned clarity and certainty that has led her to baptism, as if baptism is the end of a journey of discernment.  Quite the opposite; baptism is a beginning for Episcopalians.  The baptized does not proclaim she knows all there is to know about faith and salvation.  Instead, the baptized claims that she is starting a new journey with Jesus, with a community of faith who walks with her.  And part of the act of baptism is giving the newly baptized tools to walk that journey.

That’s why I love the lesson from Isaiah today.  Instead of scripture capturing a moment (like a baptism), scripture today tells us what the baptized journey will be like.  Isaiah describes five things that are critical to the life of baptism.  First, the faithful will “remove the yoke from among you” – or in modern language, be an agent of economic liberation for the oppressed, not taking advantage of others.  Second, the faithful will refrain from “pointing the finger,” or take responsibility for one’s own actions, not accusing others but acting to change the self.  Third, the faithful will “refrain from speaking evil,” because “speech, when it is careless or deceitful, can be destructive and injurious.”[i]  Our words have power and are to be used for good.  Fourth, the faithful are to “offer food to the hungry.”  The life of the faithful is a life of self-sacrifice and sharing what we have learned to call our own.  And finally, we are to “satisfy the needs of the afflicted” – not just helping others or solving their problems but letting the disadvantaged “define their own needs and letting them set the criteria for deciding whether our help is effective.”[ii]

What the prophet Isaiah tells us is that as the faithful, we structure our lives differently than the secular, self-interested world might have us live.  That includes honoring even the sabbath – this holy day, not as just a day to go to church (though I hope you all will regularly – either in person or online), but also to be a day of honoring God through letting go of the self and focusing on the Lord and on the cares of those in need.   That’s why in our gospel lesson Jesus’ actions of healing others on the sabbath is so controversial – because Jesus reminds us the sabbath is a day of selflessness, healing, and giving glory to God.

Last night, Becky committed herself to that life, and we, as fellow baptized recommit ourselves this very day, to a life lived differently – a life lived in the light of Christ.  The prophet Isaiah tells us that when we live faithful lives, our light shall rise in the darkness, the Lord will guide us continually, will satisfy our needs in parched places, make our bones strong, and we shall be like a watered garden – a spring – whose waters never fail.  We shall be repairers of the breach, restorers of the streets to live in. 

Earlier I used the language of self-sacrifice.  What the Holy Spirit does in baptism and what the Church tries to continue to do on every sabbath is relocate the self from the center of our universe and place us firmly within a community of faith who cares for one another while placing God in the center of our universe.  When we take that step in baptism or renew the step our parents took for us, and in gathering in weekly worship (whether gathering in person or gathering virtually), we commit not to having this faith thing figured out – but just that we want to live a life where our parched places are always quenched through the living waters of baptism, and where our lives become bigger than they have ever been – where our lives shine the light of Christ in the darkness.  Amen.

[i] Jon L. Berquist, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3, Supplement for P16 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 4.

[ii] Berquist, 4.

Sermon – Acts 2.1-21, PT, YC, June 5, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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At Hickory Neck, one of our core values is creativity.  We have an openness to experimentation that has served us well throughout this pandemic.  You might have noticed our Acts reading today was a little different – allowing us to sample the idea of what it might have been like to hear the chorus of languages on that famous Pentecost Day.  In the past, we experimented a little differently – with all the languages at one time, so that a cacophony of noise filled this space.  I LOVED the experience every year.  However, some found the cacophony to be more an experience of noise as opposed to joyful noise.  So, we experimented again this year with another way to stimulate our imagination about this significant day in the life of the Church.

As I have been thinking about our experimentation with hearing today, I stumbled on the work of theologian Willie James Jennings.  Jennings argues about Pentecost, “…we must see more than a miracle of hearing.  …The miracles are not merely in ears.  They are also in mouths and in bodies.”[i]  Jennings argues that just as important as everyone hearing in their own tongues at Pentecost was the miracle of speaking in tongues.  Now I do not know how to recreate our Acts readings by randomly choosing five of you to spontaneously speak another language.  We’ll have to experiment with that next year.  But I am intrigued by why Jennings thinks the speaking is just as important as the hearing.  Jennings argues that when you can speak in the language of another group of people, you can “speak a people.”  He says, “God speaks people, fluently.  And God, with all the urgency that is with the Holy Spirit, wants the disciples of his only begotten Son to speak people fluently too.  This is the beginning of a revolution that the Spirit performs.”[ii]

During a year of volunteer AmeriCorps service, you learn to live a little differently.  I stayed in a campus ministry building on campus for free in exchange for cleaning and locking up the building every night.  I lived on a shoestring budget and managed to get by with support.  One day, I was sitting on the loading dock of the Food Bank where I was working next to older teenager, Jayden.  We had just done a lot of work with fresh produce.  He lived in a group home that was a frequent shopper at the Food Bank.  Together, we sat on the dock, sweaty and exhausted.  As our conversation meandered, we began to talk about our homes – him in the group home and me in the home that was also a job.  When I explained my arrangement to him (which I had admittedly resented sometimes – I mean who likes cleaning toilets and pest control?), he looked dreamily out into the sky in front of us and sighed, “I hope I can find a place like that someday.”  Now, Jayden did not speak a foreign language.  The Holy Spirit did not make another language burst out of my mouth.  But Jayden and I were from very different worlds – me a recent college graduate and him unsure of his fate after he aged out of the group home.  But sitting on that loading dock, the Holy Spirit allowed me to “speak a people” – to break down the walls of language so that we could sit as equals and ponder the wonder of God and express our deepest desires with vulnerability. 

Pentecost is an invitation for the Church to learn to speak a people.  Now that does not mean you need to go sign up for foreign language class – though that certainly would not hurt.  And that does not mean you need to go volunteer for a year – though that would not hurt either.  But what speaking a people means is finding ways to meet people where they are, hear their stories in their own “language,” and share the love of God that you have received so abundantly.  Speaking a people may also mean that you do not use your mouth as much as your body to show forth love and light. 

And just in case you are hearing this invitation today and thinking, “That sounds like the work preachers should be doing, or evangelicals are better at doing,” remember what happened at that festival of Pentecost.  The text tells us, “All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.”  As scholar Karoline Lewis reminds us, the text says “all” of them.  Not some of them.  All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit.  Just like John the Baptist was filled with the Holy Spirit, and Mary was filled with the Spirit, and Elizabeth, and Zechariah, and Simeon.  All of them were filled.[iii]  And just in case you find yourself saying, “But those were famous people, a long, long time ago.  How can I do that?”  The answer is right there in verse four.  “All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.”  The Spirit will give you the ability to speak a people.  The Spirit will give you the ability to listen deeply and speak meaningfully.  The Spirit will make a way for those powerful, vulnerable moments of truth and love.  So, when you hear that dismissal today, “Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit, alleluia, alleluia,” your answer can be an emphatic, “Thanks be to God, alleluia, alleluia!”  Amen.

[i] Willie James Jennings, Acts, Belief:  A Theological Commentary on the Bible (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 29.

[ii] Jennings, 30.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, Sermon Brainwave:  #847: Day of Pentecost (C) – June 5, 2022, May 29, 2022, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/847-day-of-pentecost-c-june-5-2022 on June 2, 2022.

Sermon – Isaiah 60.1-6, Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YC, January 9, 2022

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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About a month ago, we were gathered for Youth Group, and the activity was assigning parts for the Epiphany pageant.  When we started, no one was particularly excited about the exercise, many committing to reading the parts for the night but not necessarily to performing the parts at church.  By the time we were done, youth were repeatedly asking when they should plan to be in church for the pageant, where they would get costumes, and when to schedule the dress rehearsal so they could coordinate the rehearsal with their other sports practices and commitments.  Their sparks of enthusiasm release a glint of hope in me:  maybe, after almost two years, with vaccinations for kids 5 and up, and with masking, maybe we would be able to finally have our beloved Epiphany Pageant.  And over the Christmas season, hope bloomed in my heart.

And then, five days ago, everything came apart at the seams.  We moved not along a spectrum of restrictive options, but completely shut down gathered worship altogether.  And although we have survived shutdowns before – even thrived in them – this one, on the Feast of Epiphany, is hard.  A day that is designated for the last of our Christmas celebrations instead feels like a day to recognize we are not yet done with this pandemic.  Instead of marveling at gifts and epiphanies, we feel like we are sitting in ashes.

I think that is why, even though we are celebrating the epiphany that occurs when the magi arrive in Matthew’s gospel, I am instead drawn to our lesson from Isaiah.  To understand why, we need to remember the context of this Isaiah lesson.  The lesson is a lesson proclaiming the favor of Jerusalem.  The lesson claims that although darkness covers the earth, nations shall come to Jerusalem, bearing gifts, and wealth, and abundance.  Maybe none of that sounds too remarkable – Jerusalem has always been the favored city of God.  But here’s what we might not realize about this passage of favor and blessing.  This passage is written to the exiles from Judah as they wait in Babylon.  As one scholar explains, “In the middle of the sixth century before Christ, things seem as dark as they have ever been, with little left to sustain the hopes of the Judeans.  They are exiled from their land; the temple has been destroyed; and the dynasty of David has come to disastrous end.” But, Isaiah says, “…the poverty and shame of exile will be overcome when all the wealth of the world pours into Zion and the city of exiles becomes a light to the nations.  Isaiah bids the people, ‘Arise, shine; for your light has come.’” [i]

We know all too well the darkness of exile.  If anything, this pandemic has been an exile of sorts – an exile from the physical plant of our church, an exile from family and friends, an exile from a way of life we probably never fully appreciated.  Into this darkness, Isaiah dares speak to the people a word of light:  not just the promise of the presence of light, but an instruction to be light.  “Arise, shine,” Isaiah says.  “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.  Lift up your eyes and look around; they all gather together, they come to you…you shall see and be radiant.”[ii] 

On this feast of the Epiphany, the first revelation of God to the Gentiles (the Gentiles being those magi that come from another land to see the Christ Child), we do not get to watch our children reenact the epiphanous moments of Christ’s birth narratives.  But maybe this year that is okay.  Because the story of the magi is not a story about sitting back and watching.  The story of the magi, as Isaiah reminds us, is not about observation but about participation.  This year, the question to us is not just how the magi or the exiles of Judah are epiphanies, but as Karoline Lewis asks, “how are we epiphanies of God’s glory?”[iii] 

When Isaiah says, “Arise, shine…be radiant,” our question and invitation is to consider how we can be radiant epiphanies of God’s glory in a time of darkness for our communities.  We mourn the lack of our youth and our children not being here to lead us in a pageant not because they are endearing, but because they model for us what embodying God’s light means.  The pageant is a physical reminder of the embodiment of faith we are invited into every day.  And without the pageant today, we lean into Isaiah who does not give us a free pass.  Even as we gather across the internet, we are invited to be light, to shine, to be radiant in the communities around us: to our families who maybe we’re a little tired of spending time with, to our neighbors who despite proximity may feel deeply alone, and to the weary world around us who needs Christ’s light more than ever.  And Isaiah reminds us we do not have to make light – the glory of the Lord has risen upon us already.  Our invitation is to not cover the light, but to let God’s light shine through us – to be radiant for others.  Maybe as nations come to our light, we might be able to lift up our eyes and look around and see the radiance they see in us.  Arise, my loves.  Shine.  For your light has come.  Amen.

[i] Kendra G. Hotz, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 196.

[ii] Isaiah 60.1, 3-5.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Sermon Brainwave #822:  Epiphany of Our Lord – January 6, 2022,” January 3, 2022, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/822-day-of-epiphany-jan-6-2022 on January 8, 2022.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2021

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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Church on Christmas Eve is always a funny thing.  For years, I scoured the stores for matching dresses for our girls.  I served in churches where people would sport tuxedos and fur coats for the night’s services.  Family pictures were regularly taken by the Christmas tree – either at home or at church.  Quite frankly, I was a little relieved when I became a priest and never had to worry about a new outfit because no one would see the outfit under my vestments anyway.  And then the pandemic hit.  Last year, we had to watch Christmas from home – maybe in matching pajamas, but more likely just in a pair of jeans or sweats.  A year later, we are all out of the habit of dressing for public, and, if you are here at Hickory Neck, you know jeans are just as acceptable as that fancy dress or jacket in the back of your closet or that some of you are fabulously sporting tonight. 

I am not really sure where the notion of dressing up for Christmas came from, except maybe an older tradition of always dressing up for church.  But nothing about our Christmas story screams high fashion.  Mary and Joseph are traveling to Bethlehem under order of the oppressive government and are likely in traveling clothes, dirty and weary from the road.  Mary also gives birth this night, so her body is likely sweaty and soiled.  Meanwhile, her child is not in a matching layette, but in bands of cloth.  Both are likely an exhausted mess.  And the shepherds who later come visit are likely not to fresh-smelling themselves, probably in their most utilitarian clothing for tending to sheep in the dark cold of night.

And yet, in these most basic settings, the privilege of the miraculous happens.  Mary births not just an ordinary baby, but the Christ Child – the Messiah – as Isaiah says, the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”  Meanwhile, not only does an angel appear in the blinding glory of God, but also a whole multitude of the heavenly host shows up.  All to ordinary people, dressed in ordinary garb, going about doing ordinary things.  But as scholar Sarah Henrich says, “Heaven and earth meet in obscure places, not in the halls of power.”[i] 

This week I read about such a meeting of the heavenly and earthly in the Washington Post.  In November 2020, Kim Morton was sitting at home with her daughter watching a movie in Baltimore County, Maryland, when her neighbor sent her text telling her to look outside.  Her neighbor, Matt Riggs, had hung a string of Christmas lights all the way across the street from his house to hers, as he explained, to brighten Kim’s world and to show her that they were always connected, despite the isolation the pandemic had created.  Kim had been struggling with anxiety and depression, had lost a loved one, had a lot of work stress, and had started experiencing panic attacks.  Matt knew her pain himself, and so decided they both needed a reminder that they are not alone in their pain. 

But here’s the funny thing about Matt and Kim’s story.  The neighbors saw what Matt did, and they wanted in too.  Neighbors across the street from one another started talking and said, “Let’s do it too!”  Slowly, but surely, neighbors started reaching out to one another with expressions of connection, love, and quite literally, light.  By the time Christmas arrived, 75% of the neighbors had joined in with strings of light crossing the entire drive.  And this year, in November 2021, the whole neighborhood held a house-to-house light hanging party.  Kim, the initial recipient of the lights said, “It made me look up, literally and figuratively, above all the things that were dragging me down.  It was light, pushing back the darkness.”[ii]

Matt and Kim’s story did not happen in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or even New York City.  Their story happened in a little neighborhood, outside of Baltimore, that no one had heard of until the Washington Post came along.  And although Matt and Kim never mention Jesus, the truth is that heaven and earth met in an obscure place, shining connection, love, and light.  This Christmas, the ordinary, earthy setting of Bethlehem and the shepherd fields are reminders – reminders that we can have all the fancy bow ties and heels we want, but more often, we will see and experience the sacred in the ordinary moments where Jesus shows up and offers us love.  The birth of the Christ Child tonight is a reminder that we, like ordinary shepherds can be used to be sharers of the Good News in tiny, ordinary ways – ways that show Christ’s love and light, and in ways that help us experience sacred connection with our neighbors.  Amen.

[i] Sarah Henrich, “Commentary on Luke 2:1-14 [15-20],” December 24, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christmas-eve-nativity-of-our-lord/commentary-on-luke-21-14-15-20-20 on December 22, 2021. 

[ii] Sydney Page, “A man strung Christmas lights from his home to his neighbor’s to support her. The whole community followed,” Washington Post, December 21, 2021.

Sermon – John 3.14-21, Numbers 21.4-9, L4, YB, March 14, 2021

17 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Our scripture lessons today offer two contrasts:  a story from the Hebrew Scriptures which might be unfamiliar to you or at least may seem wildly strange, and a story from John’s gospel that is so familiar, you can probably quote a portion of the text if I simply tell you the citation, “John 3.16.”  What is strange about this combination is the unknown, uncomfortable story is a window into the overly familiar, commonplace story.  If we have any hope of understanding either of them, we need to dive into both.

At the point where we join the story from Numbers, God has been infinitely patient with God’s people.  Some might argue too patient.  God has saved God’s people time and again, wresting them from brutal slavery, miraculously helping them flee through the Sea of Reeds, helping sweeten bitter drinking water when they murmured, granting them manna when they complained of being hungry, giving them water out of a rock when they grumbled about being thirsty, offering them birds to eat when they whined of manna-fatigue.  Grace and patience abound with God.  Until this day.  The Israelites throw yet another fit, and God snaps.  This time, God sends poisonous serpents among the people, and many of them die.  When the people beg for help to Moses, God instructs Moses to put a bronze serpent on a pole; if people gaze upon the serpent, they will live.  For a God who asks the people have no idols or gods before God, a serpent on a pole is, quite frankly, just weird.

Meanwhile, we have a super familiar text from John.  “For God so love the world that he gave his only Son.”  We love this verse because the verse reminds of our abundant, loving, graceful God.  Of course, we sometimes gloss over the rest of the troublesome parts of this text.  The rest talks about how Jesus saves the world – as long as the world believes.  Here is where the questions start to pile up for us.  Do we really believe that some people are condemned?  Is God’s love conditional?  What happens if we doubt?  Does that count as not believing?  Can eternal life be given and taken away based on the seesaw of my behavior?  The trouble is if we focus on God’s grace, we can make salvation seem arbitrary, with no essential place for human response.  But if we focus on human faith, we may be in danger of making salvation a human accomplishment, restricting God’s initiative universally.[i]  The only thing that seems to be clear is that God gives us a choice.  When we commit evil deeds, when we deny God through our behavior, when we linger in the darkness, we are making a choice.  And the text tells us today that the consequence of that choice is condemnation.

The answer to so much in these texts seems to lie in verse fourteen of John.  Jesus says, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”  As scholar Debie Thomas writes, “In the Old Testament story, God requires the Israelites to look up.  To gaze without flinching at the monstrous thing their sin has conjured.  It’s the thing they have wrought, the thing they fear most, the thing that will surely kill them if God in God’s mercy doesn’t intervene and transform the instrument of pain and death into an instrument of healing and life.  In order to be saved, the people have to confront the serpent — they have to look hard at what harms, poisons, breaks, and kills them.”[ii]  The same seems to happen with Jesus on a cross.  Thomas goes on to say, “In the cross, we are forced to see what our refusal to love, our indifference to suffering, our craving for violence, our resistance to change, our hatred of difference, our addiction to judgment, and our fear of the Other must wreak.  When the Son of Man is lifted up, we see with chilling and desperate clarity our need for a God who will take our most horrific instruments of death, and transform them, at great cost, for the purposes of resurrection.”[iii]

The truth is, I am not sure either of these texts answer some of our basic questions, especially around those of belief.  But tying them together today, we do find an invitation – to change our gaze away from the judgment of others, the wondering about who is in and out, the questions about God’s retribution, and gaze on the cross – the body that reminds us of the goodness of God in spite of our sinfulness, that reminds us of God’s grace in spite of our lack of deserving, that reminds us of God’s unconditional love despite our inability to keep failing.  Our invitation is to take seriously the words of that old hymn, “Turn your eyes upon Jesus, Look full in His wonderful face, And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, In the light of His glory and grace.”  As we continue on the path of Lent toward the cross, today’s texts remind us of where we are going and why.  Our invitation is to look up at the horrible, wonderful truth of what Jesus does in the cross, and stand in the light of his glory and grace.  Amen.

[i] Joseph D. Small, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 118.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “Looking Up,” March 7, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2944-looking-up, on March 12, 2021. 

[iii] Thomas.

Sermon – Jonah 3:1-5, 10, Mark 1:14-20, E3, YB, January 24, 2021

03 Wednesday Feb 2021

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We are in a season of call narratives in our lectionary cycle.  Last week, we heard Samuel’s dramatic call story – how the sleepy, confused Samuel keeps trying to be faithful, but needs Eli to help him realize God is the one speaking.  This morning we get two sets of stories.  First is Jonah, perhaps Scripture’s worst follower of God’s call – who runs in the opposite direction God sends him, almost drowns a crew of shipmates and is swallowed by a large fish, who offers the weakest possible sermon of all time to the Ninevites, and then gets angry when God changes God’s mind.  In fact, the Ninevites answer God’s call to repent immediately – they are the exact opposite of Jonah.  Meanwhile, our gospel lesson today follows two sets of brothers who leave their family and livelihood in a lurch to immediately follow Jesus.  Even our collect today, that opening prayer we say together says, “Give us grace, O Lord, to answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ and proclaim to all people the Good News of his salvation…”[i]

In some ways, this time of year is a perfect time to be thinking about our call.  We have all just celebrated the New Year, with the usual practices of setting New Year’s Resolutions.  We just elected a new Vestry last weekend.  Even Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman challenged us this week with her stunning inaugural poem, saying “There is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.  If only we are brave enough to be it.”  The invitation is everywhere around us, just waiting for us to answer God’s call. 

But despite the fact that motivation is all around us – from scripture, to secular practices, to inspirational events – few of us are feeling like we have the energy or even the emotional capacity to think about call right now.  Many of our parishioners are living out inspirational calls – from the medical profession, to teaching, to civil service.  But these are the very people are being pushed to capacity, who have had an exhausting year, and although they put on a good face, are just trying to put one foot in front of the other.  Many of our parishioners have answered the call of parenthood, and most days can tell you about the joys of parenthood.  But after almost a year of home and virtual schooling, and all the challenges being with your family 24-7 can bring, are lately wondering where God is in those relationships.  And several of our more seasoned parishioners have told me that although they appreciate all the church is doing to help them feel connected, ten months of social isolation have left them feeling like they should be doing something more meaningful, but they just do not know how.  When we are really honest, the last thing we feel like talking about is call – surely that is a conversation for when we are “back to normal.”

That is why I am so glad the Ninevites are in our call narratives today.  Nineveh is a brutal power in Jonah’s day.[ii]  They are known for their vicious treatment of the people of Israel.  They are the enemy.  But when the residents of Nineveh hear the judgment of the LORD – Jonah’s brief, half-hearted one – they immediately respond.[iii]  All the people put on sackcloth, even the king and the animals; they take up a fast, sit in ashes, and turn from their violent ways.  Talk about a 180!  The Ninevites may not be ideal citizens.  They might not even understand what a calling is.  But they do act.  And as one scholar points out, “Apparently God’s purposes can be accomplished with a minimum of faithfulness; and such faithfulness turns out to be a matter of not merely what one feels, but what one does.”[iv]

That is what all our call narrative actors do:  act.  Samuel, without fully understanding, does when he says, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”  Acting is what Jonah begrudgingly does and the Ninevites immediately do.  Taking action is what brothers Simon and Andrew and brothers John and James do – against all logic of leaving home and security to follow a man they barely know.  Our invitation this week is do the same – find ways to act.  For some of us, that action is going to be to keep showing up:  for your kids, for your clients, for the needy.  For some of us, that action is going to mean taking those feelings of isolation and doing something:  finally taking up that Connection Challenge and calling, emailing, or sending cards to fellow parishioners (who feel the same way, by the way!).  For others of us, we may need to channel all those feelings into different action:  whether we write to our local representatives to advocate for the disadvantaged, whether we finally call that nonprofit we have been admiring and offer our services, even if they have to be offered from home, or whether we ask God in prayer what acts we are being called to do for others.  We do not have to feel like being the light this week.  We simply are invited to be brave enough to be the light.  God will do the rest.  Amen.         

[i] BCP, 215.

[ii] Callie Plunket-Brewton, “Commentary on Jonah 3.1-5, 10” January 21, 2012, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1214 on January 22, 2021.

[iii] Joseph L. Price, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 270.

[iv] Lawrence Wood, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 269.  Emphasis added.