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Sermon – Genesis 32.22-31, P13, YA, August 2, 2026

05 Wednesday Aug 2026

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One of the things we often talk about in church is our relationship with God.  We talk about God as a companion on our journey – one who walks with us as we grow and develop and change in our faith life.  We talk about God as one who is in dialogue with us – one who needs us to listen as much as we talk, making sure our prayer life is more of a dialogue than a monologue.  We talk about God as one who requires vulnerability – one who wants not just the glossy versions of ourselves that we present to the public, but also the messy, angry, and sometimes ugly versions of ourselves that we rarely let anyone see.  But rarely do we talk about God as sparring partner – a prize fighter, capable of leaving real physical scars, leaving us marked visibly for others to see.

That is the image we get from our Old Testament lesson today.  To understand how Jacob comes to wrestle with God at the Jabbok, we need to go back in Jacob’s story that we’ve been hearing all summer.  Jacob is a twin, the brother of Esau and son of Isaac and Rebekah.  Jacob’s name in Hebrew means, “the one who takes the heel,”[i]  because he grabs on to the heel of his brother as he follows Esau out of the womb.  The name turns out to be quite appropriate.  Jacob will be grabbing and grasping for much of his life.

The rest of Jacob’s story unfolds like a soap opera.  When Jacob is older, Jacob manipulates Esau out of his birthright.  Then, Jacob tricks his blind father Isaac into believing that he is Esau so that he can cheat Esau out of the blessing due to him as the firstborn male.  Jacob flees for his life from his angered brother Esau, returning to his family’s homeland.  There he meets Rachel and falls in love.  Unfortunately, Rachel is the younger of two unmarried sisters, and in a twist of fate, Jacob is on the receiving end of deception when he is tricked into marrying the older sister Leah first.  Not to be outdone, Jacob manipulates Laban, his father-in-law, and manages to trick Laban into giving Jacob most of the family’s livestock before Jacob flees yet again with his large family and wealth. 

But Jacob can only run so long before fate finally catches up with him.  Some twenty years since leaving home, Esau is in hot pursuit of Jacob.  Scared, Jacob sends some gifts as an attempted bribe for Esau.  But he hears that Esau is approaching with 400 men, and so Jacob splits up his family and sends them ahead of him, leaving Jacob alone at the Jabbok in the dark of night.  This is where our story picks up today. 

The story is a bit confusing, but basically Jacob wrestles with God all night long.[ii]  We are told that the two seem to fight as equals, but at the end of the scuffle, God strikes Jacob in the hip, leaving Jacob with a limp.  Jacob asks for a blessing from God, once again grabbing in life as his name portends.  God asks Jacob his name, and instead of lying to God like Jacob lied to his father, Jacob comes clean.  “Jacob,” he says.  Now this part may sound simple enough, but God is not simply asking for and getting Jacob’s name.  Jacob is confessing.  “I am Jacob – grasper of a heel.  I have grabbed my whole way through life:  cheating, conning, scheming, plotting, and taking what does not belong to me.  I am thoroughly psychologically broken, and now you have broken me physically.  So please, give me, cheater that I am, a blessing.” 

What happens next is a total transformation.  God gives Jacob a new name, “Israel.”  No longer will Jacob be known as the grasper.  Instead, Jacob will be known as one who struggled with God – and though marked by a limp, is one who came out a new person – Israel.  With his new name, “Jacob enters into a new future, and passes his name, faith, and future on to his descendants, who bear that name even unto this day.”[iii]

The reason I retell you the whole of Jacob’s story today is because we cannot fully understand the metaphor of wrestling with God until we understand Jacob as a person.  Jacob, father of the people of God, is by no means a shiny example of faithful living.  From birth, Jacob seemed destined for a life of manipulation, attempts at control, a willingness to deceive for personal gain, and constant scheming.  And though we would like to wag our fingers at Jacob, the truth is, there is a little bit of Jacob in each of us.  The reason we disapprove of Jacob is because at some point in our lives we have been a grasper of heels.  Perhaps we have not deceived on such a grand scale as Jacob, but we have certainly tried to manipulate situations toward our own personal gain.

But we also retell this story because we learn something about God.  Earlier we talked about a God who journeys with us, who wants dialogue with us, who expects vulnerability.  We often acquiesce to this God because we trust that God is a god of love.  Debie Thomas counterargues that, “The God who goes toe to toe with Jacob is not a God whose first priority is our ease and comfort.  He’s not a God who maintains a polite distance, minds his manners, and ‘makes nice’ to keep us happy.  No, Jacob’s God is wild and mysterious, unpredictable and strange.  Jacob’s God doesn’t hesitate to muck around in the mud for several hours to bring Jacob to his knees.  Indeed, the Hebrew word for ‘wrestle’ means ‘to get dusty.’  To get dirty.  This is no dainty, breakable God.  This is a God of dust and sweat and blood and tears.  A God who is willing to ‘become dirty’ to lift us out of the dirt.”[iv]      

Thomas goes on to say, “Wrestling, as it turns out, is not an irreverent thing, because it’s the opposite of apathy, the opposite of resignation, the opposite of quitting, the opposite of complacency.   It’s even the opposite of loneliness.  To fight is to stay close, to keep my arms wrapped tight around my opponent.  Fighting means I haven’t walked away from God, and God hasn’t walked away from me.  It means we both have skin left in the game.”[v]

After seeing The Odyssey this week with our family, the girls asked me about why Athena was so present with Odysseus in the movie.  If you haven’t seen the movie yet or read the book recently, Athena appears to Odysseus throughout his twenty-year journey.  She’s on the pin Odysseus’ wife gives him before he leaves for twenty years.  She is the goddess that Odysseus dedicates the Trojan Horse to – the horse that helps them brutally defeat Troy.  She appears to him as he struggles to find his way home and fights his demons from war and loss.  And in one of the final scenes (spoiler alert – although the Greek myth has been around for a while!), she is brought to tears as Odysseus essentially confesses his sins to her, in particular the sin of desecrating her honor when he conceived of that Trojan Horse – a goddess who had journeyed with him, despite his grievous sins.  Athena does not wrestle Odysseus, but she certainly gets down in the blood, sweat, dust, and tears of Odysseus – shedding her own tears along the way.

Jacob’s story and Odysseus’ myth point us to what life with God is like.  There are parts of our lives that cannot simply be healed or gently be brought to God in prayer.  There are parts of our lives that we are going to need entry into battle with God to transform them.  The wrestling is necessary because the wrestling forces us to push through whatever is separating us from God and who God calls us to be.  And for those of us who are particularly stubborn or prone to grasping like Jacob, the wrestling is required to break down our wills enough to get us to the place of being able to confess – confess who we really are to God.  Then, and only then, will we find our transformation – a renaming of who we are so that we can be fully who God invites us to be.  But be forewarned – no one leaves the ring from a match with God without a few scars.  Amen.

[i] Denise Dombkowski Hopkins, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays Year A (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 6.

[ii] Amy Merrill Willis, “Commentary on Genesis 32.22-31” August 2, 2020, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-18/commentary-on-genesis-3222-31, as found on July 31, 2026.

[iii] David Lose, “Tell Me Your Name,” July 24, 2011 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post= 1597 on July 31, 2026.

[iv] Debie Thomas, “The Limp and the Blessing,” July 26, 2020, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2703-the-limp-and-the-blessing on July 31, 2026.

[v] Thomas.

Sermon – Matthew 13.24-30, 36-43, P11, YA, July 19, 2026

29 Wednesday Jul 2026

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The parable in our gospel lesson today is a story about weeds – actually, one weed in particular, called the darnel.  The darnel is a nasty weed, wrapping its roots around the roots of good wheat, totally indistinguishable from wheat until producing seed, and life-threatening if allowed to mix in with wheat once harvested.[i]  Jesus tells the disciples that this menacing, evil, life-threatening weed is metaphorically planted in the field of the world.  These evil weeds are planted, growing, and thriving side-by-side with the nutritious, filling, wholesome wheat, intimately intertwined, impossible to separate without destruction to both.  And this, Jesus tells the disciples, is our world.  In one short parable, we have the reality of the enemy or devil, the problem of evil in our lives, and an accounting or judgment at the end of life.  Happy Sunday, huh?

In order to find some hint of grace in this parable, we first have to explore the bad news.  The bad news in this parable is like a funnel of evil, which starts out with a wide, removed description of evil, and as the funnel narrows, the evil comes closer and closer to home.  At the wide mouth of the funnel, we find the evil of the world.  We see evil in the world everyday – as people are kidnapped, tortured, and murdered.  We see evil as people are denied basic human rights, work in sweatshops, and are forced to flee from their lands.  We see evil as people live without shelter, food, or medicines.  And although we recognize the outcomes of evil, we get uncomfortable identifying “evil” because we hope for some hint of goodness in everyone and, secretly, we know that we too sometimes participate in the world’s evils.

Our funnel narrows as the master’s field becomes defined as not only the world, but also our church community.  Here is where the notion of “evil” weeds becomes even more uncomfortable.  Jesus experienced evil in the midst of his community, as individuals constantly sought to kill him.  The early Church also experienced evil in the Church’s midst.  And the evil within the Church is still with us today.  There is no perfect church.  I love this parish and the beautiful ways we care for and love one another – but I cannot claim that we are perfectly good.  In fact, each us has at some point been like that nasty weed, capable of choking the nutrients and life-giving water out of true goodness among us – a reality that makes us uncomfortable, both with the idea of judging each other, and with the potential of being exposed ourselves.

Then comes the tightest, most compressed area of the funnel – the spout through which evil finally flows.  The field in which evil is planted is also the field of ourselves.  Paul articulated this evil in his letter to the Romans, “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”[ii]  Paul’s words perfectly capture the inner turmoil of being human.  Imagining the weeds and the wheat growing up together in our own beings is not difficult.  We are constantly an intertwined field of great deeds and hurtful wrongs.  We pray that the good seed will yield fruit and the weeds will eventually be burned, but we know both weed and wheat are inside of us.  And so, the funnel shows us that evil is in our world among us, in our faith community beside us, and in our very beings.

The grace is that the funnel also works in reverse.  Grace spews out of the same funnel.  When the servants ask the master about whether they should go ahead and pull out the weeds, the master tells them to wait, letting the two grow side by side, entangled and indistinguishable.  This waiting time is the grace for our own selves.  Recognizing that both good and evil are in ourselves, God gives us time:  time to continue to nurture the good; time to avoid killing the good in our efforts to kill the evil in ourselves; and time to allow God’s grace to work in and through us, so that the goodness in us might be gathered into that barn.  As God is patient with us, so we are to be patient with ourselves.

The same grace moves out of the funnel, out of ourselves, and into our Church.  God gives us time as a faith community too.  The gift of time gives us the opportunity to live into God’s grace – witnessing goodness to one another, so that the evil among us might be overwhelmed and eventually discarded.  The gift of time for the Church also allows us to make amends for those times when we are the agents of evil in the church, confessing our faults weekly, repenting and returning to goodness.  The gift of time for the church allows us to learn and grow in God’s goodness, to marvel in the mystery of God’s grace, and to prayerfully lift up the Church to God.  God is patient with the Church just as God is patient with each of us.

Finally, the funnel of goodness spills over into the world through the gift of time.  The gift of time allows us to work on spreading goodness in the world.  We have time to give one more meal to a hungry person, to comfort one more grieving person, to advocate one more time for a just society.  And we realize in this gift of time that we are not responsible for sorting out the weeds and the wheat.  God will do that.  We can only work to cultivate goodness in our lives, in our community, and in the world – and the rest is in God’s hands.

When we realize that each of us is some mixture of wheat and weed, of holy and unholy, of potentially fruitful and potentially destructive, we can then turn away from God’s work of judging, and turn toward our work of attending to that which increases the potential for holiness.[iii]  In other words, the grace for us in this parable is that we can leave the judgment to God, and do our work of promoting goodness in ourselves, in our community, and in the world.  This is our work.

Barbara Brown Taylor tells another parable of wheat and weeds.  “One afternoon in the middle of the growing season, a bunch of farmhands decided to surprise their boss and weed his favorite wheat field. No sooner had they begun to work, however, than they began to argue – first about which of the wheat looking things were weeds and then about the rest of the weeds.  Did the Queen Anne’s lace pose a real threat to the wheat, or could it stay for decoration?  And the blackberries?  They would be ripe in just a week or two, but they were, after all, weeds – or were they?  And the honeysuckle – it seemed a shame to pull up anything that smelled so sweet.

About the time they had gotten around to debating the purple asters, the boss showed up and ordered them out of his field.  Dejected, they did as they were told.  Back at the barn he took their machetes away from them, poured them some lemonade, and made them sit down where they could watch the way the light moved across the field.  At first, all they could see were the weeds and what a messy field it was, what a discredit to them and their profession, but as the summer wore on, they marveled at the profusion of growth – tall wheat surrounded by tall goldenrod, ragweed, and brown-eyed Susans.  The tares and the poison ivy flourished alongside the Cherokee roses and the milkweed, and it was a mess, but a glorious mess, and when it had all bloomed and ripened and gone to seed the reapers came.

 Carefully, gently, expertly, they gathered the wheat and made the rest into bricks for the oven where the bread was baked.  And the fire that the weeds made was excellent, and the flour that the wheat made was excellent, and when the harvest was over the owner called them all together – the farmhands, the reapers, and all the neighbors – and broke bread with them, bread that was the final distillation of that whole messy, gorgeous, mixed-up field, and they all agreed that it was like no bread any of them had ever tasted before and that it was very, very good.  Let those who have ears to hear, hear.”[iv]  Amen.

[i] Talitha J. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 260.

[ii] Romans 7.19

[iii] Gary Peluso-Verdend, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 264.

[iv] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 36-37.

Sermon – Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23, P10, YA, July 12, 2026

29 Wednesday Jul 2026

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When we read scripture in our bulletins, we mostly give scripture to you in one big lump.  We take out paragraph breaks, indentations for quotes or poetry, and certainly do not put Jesus’s words in red colored text.  If you’ve picked up a bible lately, you will also notice that the text often has headings – a descriptor to let you know what is coming up in the text:  a preview, if you will.  When I was in seminary, my New Testament professor told us we needed to be careful about those headings or story titles.  So, for example, if you call a story to tale the prodigal son as opposed to the tale of responsible brother; or you call a story the story of the Good Samaritan as opposed to the tale of the hypocritical leaders; or you call a story the anointing of Jesus as opposed to the misappropriation of expensive resources – the title makes a difference in how we read the story and how we make meaning.

Today’s gospel lesson is no exception.  Most of us hear this familiar story from Jesus and we know the story as The Parable of the Sower.  In fact, we get the story in two parts, and in my bible the second part is entitled, “The Parable of the Sower Explained.”  Countless Bible Commentaries refer to this story as the parable of the Sower, and many of us would do the same.  But here’s what’s funny about that title:  once we get into the weeds of this story, we quickly forget the title and start thinking of this as the parable of the soils. 

When we read scripture, we rightly seek to see ourselves in scripture – to discern what meaning there is for our everyday lives.  Now, I’m not sure the leap from the parable of the sower to the parable of the soils is unjustified.  When we read the explanation of why three-fourths of the seed does not flourish, we get a little skittish.  Am I soil on the path where birds snatch up the seed – because I failed to understand the Word and evil one snatches the good seed sown in my heart?  Am I the rocky soil, where growth sprung up beautifully, but died due to shallow roots – did I receive the Word of God with joy, but floundered when trouble or persecution came my way (because I’ve seen a lot of trouble and persecution lately…)?  Am I the soil covered in thorns, choking out the Good News – because the cares of the world and the lure of wealth has led me to place without Good News?  Jesus’s parable seems to indicate that for three out of four of us, we are that bad soil.  How can I be good soil?  Is there a way to fix my soil so I can bear fruit too?

Here’s the problem with substituting the title “Parable of the Sower,” with the “The Parable of the Soils.”  When we obsess about what kind of soil we are, we miss the point of this parable entirely.  This is a parable about the Sower – a parable about the nature of Jesus:  not about us – or at least not about us in the way we think! 

So, let’s take a breath, and go back to the text as Jesus intends (and why so many biblical editors chose the title of this parable as they did).  Barbara Brown Taylor argues, “If this is really the parable of the sower and not the parable of the different kinds of ground, then it begins to sound quite new.  The focus is not on us and our shortfalls but on the generosity of our maker, the prolific sower who does not obsess about the condition of the fields, who is not stingy with the seed but who casts [seed] everywhere, on good soil and bad, who is not cautious or judgmental or even very practical, but who seems willing to keep reaching into his seed bag for all eternity, covering the whole creation with the fertile seed of his truth.”[i]

That version of a sower is a bit uncomfortable if we are being honest with ourselves – because we would not go about planting in that way.  In fact, people in Jesus’ day wouldn’t have planted in that way either.  “Unlike a modern American farmer, who carefully prepares the soil with just the right pH balance and then injects the seed into the ground, farmers in Jesus’ time cast the seed and then plow the land.”[ii]  But that’s just looking at the story about literal farming.  Even looking at Jesus’ parable figuratively, we still wouldn’t follow his way.  As Debie Thomas articulates, we’ve thought “…over how to cultivate more fertile soil in [our] church or community.  [We’ve] analyzed and quantified, assessed, and judged.  [We’ve] evaluated ministry plans and strategies, pruned leadership commissions and committees, [We’ve] bought special pots, invested in high-end fertilizers and weed killers, and counted, sorted, and planted [our] seeds with exquisite care, placing each bit of God’s good news in its optimal place to guarantee an impressive harvest.”[iii]

Debie goes on to say, “There’s nothing wrong with planning and pruning.  There’s nothing wrong with honest and humble self-assessment.  But I think we miss something when we read the parable as a lesson about the ‘Four Terrains.’  Because that is not what [the parable] is.  It is the parable of the sower.  It is a parable about the nature and character of God.  God’s kingdom, God’s provision, God’s extravagant generosity when it comes to us, his creations.”[iv]

So let’s go back to the parable.  If this is a parable about who God is, what do we see?  Well, the sower does not seem care about the odds for successful reception of the Good News.  The sower doesn’t even for one moment examine the nature of the soil.  The sower sows seeds with abandon. The sower also seems to have an endless supply of seed and doesn’t seem to need to ration the seed or carefully plant the seed.  The sower just throws that seed everywhere, with abundance.  The sower also doesn’t seem to mind that the sower will only be successful 25% of the time.  The sower does not hold back, ration, strategize, or plan.  The sower throws around the Good News willy nilly, like a billionaire with so much money that she has lost sense of what each dollar means.  And here’s the funniest part about this illogical sower:  when there is a harvest in the good soil – that harvest is a hundredfold, sixtyfold, and even thirtyfold.  As one scholar points out, “Sevenfold meant a good year for a farmer, a tenfold meant true abundance.  Thirtyfold would feed a village for a year and a hundredfold would let the farmer retire to a villa by the Sea of Galilee.”[v]  This is very good news indeed, folks.

When Matthew was writing to first-century Palestine, he knew how hard a time and place Christians were in.  They were suffering poverty and persecution, massive migration out of the region, and even dissenters and false prophets.  They needed to know that the rejection of Jesus’ message didn’t mean their efforts were folly.[vi]  We know that truth today too.  For the parent offering guidance and compassion to the teen who doesn’t want to hear; to the businessman who pays a living wage and makes a quality product but watches clients buy cheaper elsewhere when times get rough; for the neighbor who seems intrigued by your passion for Hickory Neck but who seems to have an endless supply of excuses to never join you – we know what sharing the Good News is like.

For us, the invitation is the same as the invitation was for those first hearers of Jesus’ parable.  We are invited to be sowers of abundance – of extravagance.  We are invited to spread the seed of God’s love extravagantly, to liberate ourselves from the measures of success, and to give thanks for the abundant growth all around us.  “Look at [Jesus], tossing seeds to the wind with a delighted smile on his face, inviting us to release our own handfuls and revel in his joy.  He’s too busy laughing to count seeds.”[vii]  You can join his illogical, overflowing, joyful sowing too.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 26.

[ii] Talitha J. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 236.

[iii] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 137.

[iv] Thomas, 138.

[v] Arnold, 236.

[vi] Arnold, 238.

[vii] Thomas, 139. 

Sermon – Genesis 21.8-21, P7, YA, June 21, 2026

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Rhonda sat on her bathroom floor crying.  The bathroom was the only place she felt like she could get a moment of privacy.  Her tears were the release she found for what felt like an impossible juncture.  Last summer things had been okay for Rhonda.  She was coping with her divorce, and managing to feed and care for her son on her own, despite the fact that her income from cleaning houses was so small.  She had managed to work out some government assistance that gave her enough cushion to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.  Life was not easy, but life could be a lot worse.

But during the last year, her world began to fall apart.  After a work injury, Rhonda could not clean houses for months.  Being self-employed meant she had no one to fill in at her houses.  After several months, her customers all got new help.  Because she was not working, her government assistance decreased.  The assistance programs required that clients work to receive assistance.  Rhonda could not clean houses because of her injury, and she did not have enough education to qualify for other work.  As the money became more and more scarce, Rhonda began to fear for her son.  Her son was looking thinner and more sickly each day.  He did not understand what was happening, and his deserved frustration had led her to the bathroom to cry.  Things had gone from bad to worse as Rhonda feared they would have no food, no home, or that she could lose her son.  All that was left to do was to cry:  to cry tears of sorrow, to cry out to God for mercy.

Hagar knows Rhonda’s tears.  Hagar is the handmaid for Sarah, Abraham’s wife, whom Sarah had given to Abraham to take as a wife because Sarah was infertile.  Hagar resented this action, and has already suffered a great deal, grappling with her powerlessness and lack over control over her most private, personal space.  Today the text brings us forward a few years in Hagar’s family.  Hagar’s son Ishmael is growing into a young boy, and Sarah has finally conceived her own son.  The birth of Isaac is a joyous occasion that all the family celebrates.  But just as Hagar has begun to reclaim her personhood, Hagar suffers again.  Sarah sees Ishmael – the son that reminds her of her infertility, who will not represent the blessed line of Abraham – playing with Isaac – her own son, whom she proudly bore and who will mark the blessedness of Abraham’s line.  Sarah turns to Abraham and tells him to send Hagar and Ishmael away.  Although Abraham is crushed by the idea, God supports Sarah’s decision.  For Hagar, the world is against her.  We hear no words from Hagar as Abraham loads water and bread on her shoulders, gives her Ishmael, and sends her out into the wilderness.

Hagar wanders in the desolate wilderness until she runs out of water.  Looking at her son, whose death she imagines is immanent, Hagar puts him under the shade of a bush and walks away.  She walks away and cries out to God.  She cannot watch the death of her son.  Not after all she has been through.  She cries out to God as her last resort.

The tough part of this story is figuring out why this is happening.  Why would Sarah condemn Hagar and Ishmael to death by having them driven out into the wilderness?  Why would God agree with Sarah, especially when Ishmael’s birth was Abraham and Sarah’s choice in the first place?  Why does Abraham give up his first son so easily, without a word to Hagar?  The grief and injustice in this passage are overwhelming, and we are left pointing angry fingers in multiple directions.

Hagar’s wilderness moment is not foreign.  We know those times when we feel like everyone is against us, including God.  The wildernesses of our lives are those desolate, lonely, dark places of wandering.  The wilderness is a scary, stark place of solitude that takes us to the depths of our finitude and forces us into encounters with God.  In the wilderness, we experience God in a way that we cannot not experience God elsewhere.  In the dry desert of suffering, which is scorching by day and frigid by night, with little water, we experience a sense of nakedness and vulnerability that we try to mask in our everyday lives.

Despite the darkness in the Genesis text today, there is also an equal measure of hope for the suffering.  The last third of the text we hear today is filled with God’s action for the afflicted.  First, God hears Ishmael.  The text says “And God heard the voice of the boy.”  This word “to hear” is important on many levels.  In the original Hebrew, Ishmael’s name means “God will hear.”[i]  Already, Ishmael’s name – God will hear – comes to fruition.  Further, the word “to hear” in Hebrew, shema, connotes more than physical hearing.  “To hear” in Hebrew also means “to understand.”  God understands how Ishmael and Hagar cry out. 

God’s second action is to make a promise.  The angel of God speaks to Hagar about Ishmael saying, “I will make a great nation of him.”  We know from scripture that God does not make promises lightly with God’s people.  God fulfills God’s promises.  If God says that God will make a great nation of Ishmael, Hagar knows to believe God.  No matter how dire things seem, God makes a promise, and God does not disappoint.

God’s third action is to open Hagar’s eyes.  The text says that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.”  In the opening of Hagar’s eyes, God allows Hagar to perceive God’s presence and action in her suffering.  God lifts the blindness that suffering and desperation create.  God shows Hagar the gift of life that God provides in the well of water.  God’s gift is abundant, and God reveals the gift when Hagar cannot see.

God’s final action is to be with Ishmael.  The text says, “God was with the boy.”  The verb “to be” is one of the most simple and basic words.  When applied to God, “to be with” has great meaning.  The text says that in all Ishmael does, in all the experiences Ishmael has, in all that Ishmael’s journey entails, God is with him.  God does not abandon Ishmael.  God does not forget.  God is with him.

One of my favorite Gospel hymns is called “He’s an On Time God.”  The song talks about the ways that God always comes to our need just when we need God.  The refrain goes, “He may not come when you want Him, but He’ll be there right on time.  He’s an on-time God, oh yes He is.”  The song describes the Israelites who crossed the Red Sea just before the Sea collapsed on the Egyptians, the relief of Job’s long suffering, and the feeding of the 5,000 by Jesus.  What I love about the song is the booming chorus of singers and the repeated affirmation that God is on time.  Now, the theology of the song is a little tricky.  I think the song misses something by suggesting that God is not always with us.  But the song is on to something.  I might rephrase the refrain to be something like – suffering may not end when you want it, but you will realize God is with you in the suffering right on time.  In this way, God is an on-time God.

We may not understand God’s actions, or why we suffer, but God is with us.  Hagar is a great gift this week for reminding us about what our relationship with God is like.  Hagar reminds us that we have an active relationship with God.  Hagar shows us that we can cry out to God in our suffering.  Hagar demonstrates to us that God is not a faraway god who is removed from our daily lives.  By crying out to God, we reveal our earthy, dynamic relationship with God.

Meanwhile, God’s actions toward Hagar show us that God has a reciprocal relationship with us.  God is active in our lives.  God hears us, understands us, and will act in our lives.  God is with us, all of the time, especially in our suffering.  When we enter into that relationship with God, crying out to God, we let go of notions of distance from God or personal control of our lives.  We allow God to open our eyes so that we can see God’s action in our lives.  By opening our eyes, God shows us the blessings God has for us.  God did not tell Hagar and does not tell us what our blessings will look like.  But there will be blessings.  God will open our eyes to reveal the bounty of blessing for us.  As we enter into that holy, vulnerable relationship with God, allowing our eyes to be opened, we see God’s blessings – right on time.  Amen.

[i] Gordon J. Wenham, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 2 (Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 88.

Sermon – Genesis 18.1-15, 21.1-7, P6, YA, June 14, 2026

08 Wednesday Jul 2026

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Today we get one of my favorite stories in scripture – Sarah’s laughter at God’s promise.  The story is perfectly crafted.  The story begins with a flurry of activity.  Abraham is sitting in his tent in the heat of the day when three guests suddenly appear.  As soon as Abraham sees them, he runs to greet them, begging them to stay.  Then Abraham springs the entire household into action.  He barks orders about baking cakes, grabs a calf and commands the calf be prepared for the guests.  He gets curds and milk and rushes to plate the feast for the guests.  We can almost imagine Abraham panting as he finally delivers the meals to the guests.

But then the story comes to a screeching halt, with a question that tells us what is really important.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?”  And slowly, the promise of a child to a barren, post-menopausal woman unfolds.  Abraham and Sarah were promised long ago to be the parents of a great nation.  But Sarah had given up on that dream.  She had already asked Abraham to go to her slave-girl and have a child with Hagar as a representative child for her.  Her action with Hagar had been a desperate move, but what else could she have done?  So, when this guest, or God, as the text later tells us, says that Sarah will conceive herself, after years of longing, hoping, feeling devastated and powerless, Sarah does what we all might do.  She laughs.  She laughs at the prospect of pleasure in her marriage when she and Abraham are so advanced in age.  She laughs at the impossibility that their pleasure might lead to progeny.  She laughs at the promise because believing the promise would mean opening herself up to unfilled dreams yet again.

Sarah’s laughter has long been used as a criticism for a lack of faith in God.  When God asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” and when Sarah quickly denies her laughter, countless readers have wagged their fingers at Sarah as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith.”  And I can see how we get there.  The exchange between Sarah and God – the laughter that bubbles out from years of hurt and disappointment, the scolding by God, the attempt to lie to cover up culpability, and the scolding yet again when God calls Sarah on her dishonesty – is all too familiar to us.  What the accusation of lacking faith forgets is how terribly vulnerable and resigned Sarah is.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have counseled who at the end of second marriage have begun to doubt God’s presence.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have sat with after receiving a bad diagnosis for themselves or their loved one who has begun to wonder whether God has abandoned them.  I cannot tell you the number of people have received yet another rejection letter who have begun to question God’s call on their life.  When Sarah laughs, I do not feel justification for judgment against her level of faith.  When Sarah laughs, I hear the ache of countless believers who know how ludicrous God’s promises and our hopes can be.

What gets me about the judgment of Sarah is the short memory of scripture readers.  In the chapter before what we heard today, Abraham is given the same promise that Sarah hears – a child by Sarah.  And his reaction?  He does not simply laugh quietly to himself as Sarah does in that tent.  He falls on his face and laughs a full-bodied laugh at God.  The only difference in laughter between Abraham and Sarah is that Abraham laughs in front of God whereas Sarah tries to hide her laughter.  Both are an acknowledgement of doubt about what God can do.  Both take all their disappointment, pain, and hurt, and dissolve into laughter because, quite frankly, sometimes God is laughable.  Sometimes God makes no sense at all, and laughing is the only release and protection from more hurt.  Humans questioning God is a natural part of a genuine God-human conversation, a conventional motif we see throughout the Old Testament.[i]

Old Testament scholar Kathryn Shifferdecker suggests an alternative interpretation of this passage:  that God may not be a God of judgment in this passage.  In fact, she sees God as fully understanding the comedy of the situation.  She sees a God with a sense of humor, who when God says, “Oh yes you did laugh,” says so with a twinkle in his eye.[ii]  Her theory totally shifts the reading for me.  Instead of an angry or disappointed God, who judges disbelief, our God is a God who understands that God’s promises are sometimes laughable – even if they are true.  Why else would God tell Abraham to name his son Isaac, which means, “he laughs,” in Hebrew?[iii]  As Schifferdecker explains, “Abraham falls on his face in a fit of laughter.  Sarah laughs behind the tent door.  And the LORD (I believe) laughs with them at the divine, wonderful absurdity of it all.  Given the humor of the scene under the oaks of Mamre, and the comedy of a God who acts in unexpected ways to fulfill God’s promises, it is entirely appropriate that the child of the promise should be named ‘Laughter.’”[iv]

The image of the three of them laughing – Sarah, Abraham, and God, makes a lot of sense once we hear the final words of Sarah.  In chapter 21, Sarah, perhaps initially embarrassed or doubtful of God, now says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.”  This story is not a story of shame for those of us who struggle with doubt, anger, or frustration with God.  This is not a story of an unfaithful follower of God.  This is a story about a woman and a man who look at the absurdity of God’s promise with the fullness of their humanity and laugh – hard, belly-shaking, on-the-floor laughter that only comes when the divine finally breaks through our disappointment, shame, and anger, and brings us to laughter.

I love this story even more as I think about the trinity of Abraham, Sarah, and God laughing.  Their laughter affirms our own incredulous walks with God.  Their laughter takes those moments when we no long trust God’s promises, and transforms them.  No longer do we need to hide away our deepest doubts, but instead we honor them.  We share them.  And we create communities of laughter with them.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, vol. I (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 465.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7],” June 18, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3301 on June 12, 2026.

[iii] Tamara Cohn Eshkenazi, ed., The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary (New York: Women of Reform Judaism URJ Press, 2008), 97.

[iv] Schifferdecker.

Sermon – Matthew 9.9-13, 18-26, P5, YA, June 7, 2026

10 Wednesday Jun 2026

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One verse in the Bible.  That is all we get for the entirety of Matthew’s call story.  One verse – just 30 words in the English translation we heard today – and only 20 words in the original Greek.  “As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’  And he got up and followed him.”  That’s all we get.  Jesus sees Matthew working, tells Matthew to follow him, and Matthew gets up and follows Jesus.  When God calls Abram in our Old Testament lesson today, God makes multiple promises to Abram, makes multiple promises about the people Abram will encounter, and makes promises for the whole earth.  Abram gets a whole list of reasons to pack up and go where God invites.  Matthew gets two words:  Follow me.

Many of us know what being called to go feels like.  Our high school graduates finish an almost lifetime’s worth of work, and then go:  to college, to the workforce, to a new life.  Many of us have taken calls for new jobs:  a military assignment, a promotion at work in the new office location, a job in a town with more opportunities.  And many of us have responded to calls that felt like vocations:  an invitation to serve internationally, a marriage proposal or a divorce that meant uprooting a life, starting school over again because you felt a call to a new vocation, or even venturing into a new part of town or with a new set of people because you felt a call to care for those who needed you.  In all of those scenarios you said yes.  You followed.  You went.

So where does our yes come from?  For Matthew, even though we only get 30 words of explanation, and seemingly no words about his why, there is more to the story.  First, we are told that Jesus sees Matthew at a tax booth.  What we know about tax collectors in Jesus’ time is that tax collectors are hated.  “Matthew was socially despised and hated by the Roman subjects because tax collectors were known to be corrupt and committed to the imperial system.  His tax collection helped sustain the empire’s elite and the unjust status quo.”[i]  So, right away we know that for Jesus to invite a despised man, Jesus sees differently than everyone around him.  Scholar Amy Frykholm says, “Jesus sees Matthew.  He doesn’t see Matthew, the tax collector.  He sees a full human being… Thus, Jesus and Matthew have an actual encounter.  Clearly, as they truly see one another, something changes.  [As Martin] Buber writes, ‘When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them.’”[ii] 

So, though we seemingly know nothing about Jesus and Matthew – we also know there is something profound happening between them – an electricity surging between them because they authentically and humanly relate to each other.  But there is so much more to know about where Matthew’s yes could come from.  In the very next verse, we learn that Jesus doesn’t just see Matthew and accept him fully.  Jesus sits with a whole table of outcasts:  more tax collectors, sinners, and his disciples.  When called out about this socially unacceptable behavior Jesus proclaims he is about mercy.  But Jesus’ mercy is not limited to outcasts.  A leader in the religious community asks for revival of his dead daughter and Jesus goes to heal.  A hemorrhaging woman, a defiled woman for over 12 years, reaches out to touch Jesus’ cloak because she believes Jesus will heal her too – and he does.  As Stanley Hauerwas says, “Jesus is what he does.  He has come to give his life so that we can live the life for which we were created.”[iii] 

That is where our yes comes from.  “Jesus’ ministry is marked by both urgency and accessibility.  Both those who are outcast and those who are part of the social establishment find in Jesus a compassionate heart.  Both those with acute needs and those with chronic pain find healing power.  Both those who reach out and those who need to be beckoned find attentive aid.”[iv]  I don’t know where Jesus is asking you to follow him these days.  I do not know whether you feel worthy of such a call or whether you are even interested in listening.  I do not know if your life feels like there is room for a yes right now.  But I do know that Jesus is extending his mercy to you today.  Jesus sees you – not for what you do professionally, or the things you do recreationally, or even for the ailments that seem to define you.  Jesus sees you.  Jesus calls you.  The electricity of Jesus is surging all around you.  Your invitation is to follow.  Amen.

[i] Luke A. Powery, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 117.

[ii] Amy Frykholm, “Healing Encounters,” May 31, 2026, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/4171-healing-encounters on June 5, 2026.

[iii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 102.

[iv] Alexander Wimberly, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 116. 

Sermon – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 17, 2026

27 Wednesday May 2026

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One of my favorite videos on YouTube is an experiment by the group called SoulPancake.  They asked six pairs of individuals, in various stages of relationship (from total strangers to a couple who has been married 55 years) to sit in two chairs facing one another, and without speaking, look into one another’s eyes for four minutes.  Four whole minutes.  Imagine four minutes of silent looking into each other’s eyes.  At first the couples seem a bit uncomfortable – initially unsettled by the forced silence, but ultimately jarred by what they quickly realize is deep intimacy.  Slowly over the four minutes the couples settle in, their faces transforming from discomfort to curiosity to deep connection.  You can almost see the sparks of love emerging in their eyes, tension draining from their bodies, and invariable smiles of appreciation spreading across their faces.[i]

When Willie James Jennings writes about the ascension of Jesus, one his primary concerns is that in focusing on the heavens, where Jesus ascends, the disciples will forget to focus on one another, on the stranger in need of witness, and on the presence of God.  Jennings worries that the disciples are looking “into the heavens concerned by absence rather than looking forward to see presence.”[ii]  The text from the Acts of the Apostles tells us of the last earthly day of Jesus’ post-resurrection life.  Jesus gives the disciples a commission and is lifted up into the clouds and whisked away.  The text tells us the disciples do exactly what you might imagine – they stand there, staring at the heavens, staring at the ascended Jesus.  I imagine that standing and staring had several iterations:  there was likely the stunned awe of the moment; there may have been some not wanting to leave for fear of missing what might happen next; there may be some immediate second guessing about what this all means; there may be some Peter-esque desire to preserve the sacred location of the profound moment; there may be a sense deep grief, or conversely a sense of profound joy.  Whatever those disciples are doing, they are not at all doing they are supposed to do.  Hence the men in white robes asking their very basic question, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”

This past week the clergy of the Diocese gathered for our spring clergy day.  The speaker for the day was The Rev. Canon Stephanie Spellers, talking about her new book, Church Tomorrow? What the ‘Nones’ and ‘Dones’ Teach Us About the Future of Faith.  Spellers spent the first part of her book and our clergy day talking about the numbers related not just to church decline across denominations and generations, but also the decline of civic membership in general.  Just as church membership has declined, so has membership in all membership-based groups, from the golf club, to service organizations, to fraternal organizations.  But what Spellers ultimately concludes is that we are not to get lost, standing and staring at the data.  Even given the grim data about behavioral changes, the Spirit is inviting us into being the Church on the move, meeting people where they are.

What Spellers sees now, and the men in white robes saw then, is there is danger in looking up in the heavens into absence as opposed to looking forward to presence.  Alan Hirsch tells us, “the biggest blockage to the next experience of God is often the last experience of God, because we get locked into it.”[iii]  [repeat]  What those men in white knew was that if the disciples stood there lost in themselves or even in the ascended Jesus, they would never get their next experience of God – they would get so locked into the mountaintop experience of Jesus’ ascension, that they would never make their way to the next experience of God – in their case, the great gift of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost.

That is our invitation today.  As we look at the changing nature of social engagement, as we wonder about the how or when we will ever emerge from the great divisions in our country, and even as we dream about what is next for Hickory Neck, a great whispering is happening nearby, saying “why are you standing looking up toward heaven?”  Our invitation instead is to resist letting our next experience of God be our last experience of God.  Our invitation is to gather in in prayer and community, as Jesus instructed the disciples, knowing that the Holy Spirit will do a new thing in all of us.  Our invitation is to walk down the mountain of the ascension and into the valley of witnessing the gospel of Jesus, looking forward not only for the presence of God, but taking time to gaze deeply into the eyes and lives of others.[iv]  This season of unrest and discontent in our time is not a time to be marked by absence, but instead is a time looking forward to see presence.  We can only see that presence if we pull our eyes from heaven and gaze into the sacred we find in one another.  The next experience of God promises to be greater still than our last experience of God.  I can’t wait to hear all about your next experience.  Amen.

[i] Georgia Koch, “How To Connect With Anyone,” SoulPancake, February 12, 2015, as found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xm-T3HCa618 on May 15, 2026.

[ii] Willie James Jennings, Acts:  Belief:  A Theological Commentary on the Bible (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 19-20.

[iii] Alan Hirsch and Rob Kelly, Metanoia: How God Radically Transforms People, Churches, and Organizations From the Inside Out (Cody, Wyoming:  100 Movements Publishing, 2023).

[iv] John S. McClure, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 525.

Sermon – John 14.15-21, E6, YA, May 10, 2026

27 Wednesday May 2026

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One of the funny things about parenting is that you enter into the role with some pretty set ideas about how you will parent.  You have spent a lifetime figuring out what you think is the right and wrong way to do most things, and you imagine that part of your role as a parent is to pass along this hard-earned wisdom.  One of those tidbits of wisdom I had planned to pass along was the importance of expressing remorse in relationships, being able to offer an unqualified “I’m sorry,” whenever needed to maintain an authentically loving relationship.  But once I actually started parenting, I had no idea how challenging that tiny phrase, “I’m sorry,” would be.  I never knew how much of apologies could show so little remorse.  I have witnessed the angry, shouted, “I’m sorry!”s, there have been the resistant, mumbled, “I’m sorry”s, there have been the sarcastic, eye-rolling, “I’m sorry.”s.  And parental requests for our children to “mean it” when they say, “I’m sorry,” are almost comical.  If I’m being honest with myself, how can I or anyone expect anyone else to apologize by force, command, or as a condition for something else?

I think that is what is so strange about today’s lesson from John’s gospel.  Jesus says “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” and “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.”  The commandments Jesus is talking about are those instructions to love God, love self, love neighbor.  In John’s gospel, they are the only commandments Jesus gives.[i]  And who would protest such commandments?  Of course we should all want to love God, love self, and love neighbor.  But there is something strange about the way Jesus presents his command to us – if you love me, you must do these things.  If you love me, you must obey my way.  As lovely as “love” sounds, there is something that harkens to those forced apologies about our text today.  I am pretty sure Jesus is not asking us to love others with a sense of bitterness, resentment, or obligation – and certainly without shouts, mumbling, and eye-rolling.

Some of you may be thinking, “What’s so hard about loving others?  Why would I resist that?”  We do not have to look too far back to see why I think loving others is actually hard work.  If you remember, right at the beginning of the pandemic six years ago, we all pulled together.  People immediately worried about our elders being able to safely procure food and supplies; we pitched in to make sure the hungry were fed with free school lunches and restocked food banks; we sewed face masks (before we had access to medical grade ones) and donated to charities to help protect the vulnerable.  Our collaboration, care, and support of one another was inspiring and invigorating.  But it did not take long for our demons to emerge.  As hard decisions arose about reopening businesses to buttress the economy, making cuts to make ends meet, or laying off employees to help businesses survive, we reverted to our divided, vitriolic ways from before the pandemic, not only disagreeing, but attacking the character, intelligence, and dignity of one another – a habit that has waned very little in the last six years. 

So, when we ask, “What’s so hard about loving others?” my response is, “This.  This is what is hard about loving others.  All of this is hard.”  As one scholar puts it, “It is NOT sufficient (or even meaningful) to profess love for Jesus while we hold ourselves apart from our fellow human beings.  To love Jesus is to love others.  All others.  The lover, the friend, the neighbor, the companion.  But also the alien, the stranger, the misfit, and the enemy.  The ones with whom we agree, and the ones with whom we emphatically disagree.  The ones we naturally like, and the ones we don’t.”[ii]  Another scholar pushes us even further, saying, “Authentic love is not passive; [authentic love] is active and demonstrative.”[iii]  Our love of Jesus is only as authentic as our active, demonstrative love of all others.

So, how can we possibly love that way?  The good news is Jesus says we will have help.  Just as Jesus has been an advocate for his disciples – “guiding, teaching, reminding, abiding, witnessing, interceding, comforting,” so they will have the Holy Spirit.  “What they have known in Jesus, and fear losing in Jesus’ impending absence, they will always know in the promise of the [Holy Spirit].”[iv]  What Jesus promises in John’s gospel today is big. 

Now, I know some of us get a little uncomfortable talking about the Holy Spirit – either the Spirit’s presence just seems too amorphous to be of any value, or the Spirit seems to do weird, dramatic things that scare us more than comfort us.  But Jesus is not simply saying the Holy Spirit will be ambiguously hanging around when Jesus is gone.  The Holy Spirit will be, and is, accompanying us.  As scholar Karoline Lewis says, “Accompaniment is not simply having someone beside you.  Accompaniment is not a mere ministry of presence.  Accompaniment means active and assertive abiding—an abiding that enters into places of fear and discomfort, uncertainty, and troubled hearts, and speaks the truth freely.”[v]

This is our good news today.  On those days when loving seems hard, when obeying Jesus’ command to love feels impossible, the Holy Spirit is and will be here to accompany us, to walk with us in fear, discomfort, uncertainty, trouble, and guide us into lives of love.  The Spirit is with us to enable us to be agents of love even when we doubt we can.  That promise today makes the invitation to love as Christ has loved us not only doable, but desirable.  That promise today helps us loosen our grip on resentment, anger, and fear, and open our hands to love and collaboration.  That promise today makes obedience to love feel like a gift.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Love and Obedience,” May 10, 2020, https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2640-love-and-obedience, as found on May 8, 2026.

[ii] Thomas.

[iii] Yung Suk Kim, “Commentary on John 14:15-21,” May 10, 2026, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/sixth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-1415-21-7 on May 8, 2026.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “A Time for Accompaniment,” May 10, 2020, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5433, as found on May 8, 2026.

[v] Lewis.

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

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iii] Acts 2.46-47a.

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

[v] Riddle.

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

[vii] John 10.10b.

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

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iv] Idea described by Thomas, 194.

[v] Aymer.

[vi] Aymer.

[vii] Thomas, 197.