A sermon for the Ordination of Deacons:
The Revs. Bruce Bryant and Marcus Emmons
December 13, 2025, at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Little Rock, AR
Readings: Jeremiah 1:4-9; Psalm 84; Acts 6:2-7; Luke 22:24-27
I had grown frustrated. I was sitting in yet another meeting for a community group going over financial reports. We seemed to be talking in circles about nothing at all. Have you been in meetings like that? Marcus and Bruce: As ordained leaders in this church, you will sit in your fair share of those meetings. But not wanting to rock the boat too much, I was hesitant to speak up. I was new on the board–I think it must have been my second meeting. So, rather timidly, I began my remarks. I said something like, “Well, I’m new here, but–” The chair cut me off. “This is the last time you use the excuse of being new; we want to hear from you.” I’m not sure why I felt like I needed to qualify my feedback. Maybe I wasn’t sure of my footing yet. The truth is, I can do that a lot–make excuses for myself. It’s a human thing, is it not? But the chair’s point was taken. I was on the board for a reason, and time was running short. Stop making excuses.
Jeremiah: stop making excuses. Our reading today was from the beginning of Jeremiah, from his call narrative. When we read Holy Scripture, we discover that all prophets make excuses; they worry they cannot respond faithfully and completely to God’s call. The Holy Spirit answers their refutations, cutting them off. Jeremiah today says he is only a boy. He doesn’t have the experience necessary; he doesn’t have the ability to communicate what God is saying; this is only his second meeting; he doesn’t, he can’t, he–well, you get the picture.
That may not be his real excuse, though. We didn’t read this verse, but verse one of Jeremiah chapter one, just before our reading today, before God speaks, before the prophet gives his excuse–verse one is revealing. “The words of Jeremiah son of Hilkiah, of the priests who were in Anathoth in the land of Benjamin…” The priests who were in Anathoth; that’s Jeremiah’s family. Jeremiah is the descendant of priests without a parish, of banished ministers who backed the wrong horse, sent to the backwaters of Anathoth by King Solomon generations ago. You can read about Abiathar the priest and his banishment in I Kings 2. Jeremiah comes from a family story that is replete with shame, with rejection, with what-ifs and how-comes and shoulda-woulda-couldas. So when the word of the Lord comes to him; when the commission as a prophet comes to him; when a calling to a people comes to ole Jeremiah with his family baggage, that word, commission, and calling find themselves competing with history, shame, and excuses. And only the fiery hand of the Lord on the prophet’s mouth can purge away the self-doubt. Dear Jeremiah: King Solomon may have banished Abiathar the priest and your ancestors, but the Lord of Hosts is calling you now. Speak the word; time is running short; this is the last time you use Anathoth as your excuse.
Bruce and Marcus: the word, commission, and calling of God have arrived in your life, as they arrive in every life. And God has seen fit to call you into ordained ministry. For both of you, this is not your first rodeo. Your journey here has been different, with a fair share of twists and turns. From the backwaters of Haskell and Center Ridge, from the Church of Christ and the Anglican Church in North America, from places unexpected and events unanticipated, God has brought you here, to this Communion, to this people, to this place. I don’t know if you, like Jeremiah, harbor self-doubt because your journey has been unusual, but trust this: every step has been ordered. Speak the word; time is running short; Anathoth is no excuse.
Of course, that’s easier said than done. Just ask Jeremiah at the bottom of the cistern. There are times–many times–when the ghosts of Anathoth surround and overtake, when the excuses and self-doubt return, when we wonder whether it was the Lord’s hand after all. The disciples themselves know something of that today.
The gospel reading is a familiar scene, but we most often think of this encounter in Mark or Matthew. There, this conversation about greatness is between Jesus and the Zebedee family, either James and John, or with the mother of James and John. But Luke changes the location of this conversation. In Luke, they are having this conversation smack dab in the middle of Communion. No sooner has Jesus finished with the Words of Institution than the disciples start bickering about who is the greatest among them.
But I think there is more to this encounter than meets the eye. I think it is more than mere grandiosity and pride. Here at the Last Supper, amidst talk of betrayal and suffering and death, the disciples find themselves in a place of unsure footing, not certain of their way in the darkness. From that uneasy position, aware that they do not know the way forward, they begin jockeying for influence and advantage and greatness and power–what they’re really jockeying for is safety in the midst of uncertainty, for reassurance in the midst of doubt and excuse. Like Jeremiah, perhaps like you and me, they are wondering if that word who once pierced their souls in Anathoth, on the shores of the sea of Galilee, at the tax booth and in the fishing boat–if that word can still reach them at the bottom of this pit, in their darkest hour? If that word can sustain them in the face of what is to come; if that word is present even at the cross, in dark rooms out of sight, in forgotten corners where they can escape unharmed. Besieged by excuses and self-doubt, they turn away from trusting their Lord and they flee to the safety of pride.
In a moment, Bruce and Marcus–in a moment you will make a promise. You will promise to look for Christ in all others, being ready to help and serve those in need, and especially the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely. Your presence as deacons in the liturgy will echo that promise, as you proclaim the Good News of God in Christ Jesus; as you call the Body to repentance; as you prepare the Table where we are fed with the goodness of God’s grace; as you send us out to do the work God has given us to do. You will make that promise and vow to walk that life, and you will do so in the context of a church that too often turns from the Lord and flees to the safety of pride; in the context of a church, made up of sinners, who jockeys for greatness and power no sooner than the Words of Institution are spoken; in the context of a church that has excuses and self-doubt and plenty of family baggage and more than a little shame and memories of Anathoth.
As deacons God has given you a word for that church, for this people: a word that calls us from our Anathoths of shame and excuse, and into the embodied proclamation of the Good News of Jesus Christ; a word that takes us from that jockeying for greatness and power and turns our gaze again and again and again to the vulnerable and marginalized around us; a word that tells us to stop making excuses, that cuts us off when we’re missing the point, that calls us from the cisterns of our timidity and into bold service. By your faithful living and proclamation, make sure we hear that word. My brothers: time is running short; we must hear that word from God.
This last Tuesday the undercroft at St. Luke’s was abuzz with activity. I was a little busy, trying to balance a hundred things at the beginning of the day. A man I had not seen before was present. He asked if we could talk; I regret that I took too long to get to him. After all, I have the 2026 budget to finalize; stewardship letters to send out; emails to answer; meetings to attend. When I finally got to him, he told me his story. He goes by the name Marine. A veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, he suffers from PTSD. His mental health crisis has left him vulnerable and homeless. He scared me some, if I’m honest. His woundedness is not benign. A noise can thrust him into visions of warfare, even today, even in the undercroft at St. Luke’s. Marine told me his story, and he asked for prayer.
He took a shower and was given new clothes. He put on his coat with marks of his warfare; picked his backpack and the stick he was carrying; he went out into the cold. I saw him as he walked off–out of the corner of my eye, I saw him as he rounded the corner. And I wondered: Who will help us see, even in the face of Marine, the face of Christ? Who will keep our focus there?
Bruce and Marcus: Can it be you?
Storied Grace 