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A sermon for the 14th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 19
September 11, 2022

In our gospel reading from Luke, we hear some parables. But first, Luke sets the scene. It’s important to know who it is Jesus is talking to. Luke writes, “All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” So we have two groups around Jesus: sinners on the one hand, and the religious leaders on the other. To put it differently, we have people who admit they do not know God and are coming to Jesus to hear more on the one hand, and we have the starched and pressed religious elite who have everything figured out and show up to church with their Bible verse memorized on the other hand. And those religious leaders, the ones with everything figured out, are grumbling about how cavalier Jesus seems to be with the company he keeps. 

So Jesus tells them three parables, the two we hear today, immediately followed by the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Each parable has the same structure, the same dilemma, and the same celebratory outcome. Jesus is really trying to drive his point home. 

Something or someone has been lost. They’ve been misplaced somehow. This happens in all sorts of ways. The Prodigal leaves home on his own accord, confident he can handle things himself. The sheep innocently runs off, gets lost, and doesn’t know the way back. As for the coin, an accident of some kind happens. It gets rolled off. Something knocks it off. It gets lost because someone else was careless or thoughtless or made a mistake. In the end, it doesn’t matter how they get lost. They are all lost. 

Not only are they lost, but they are missed dearly. That’s the bigger point in the story. The shepherd goes out and searches until he finds that bleating sheep; the woman searches and searches until she finds her coin; the father waits and watches until his Son shows up and greets him on the road at first sight.  Once reunited, there is a party. A big party. Because when something or someone we love is missing and missed dearly, we party when there is reconciliation and reuniting. 

The gospel ends with the interpretation: Jesus says, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” 

Then what happens? How does that original crowd–sinners on the one side, religious leaders on the other–how do they react to what Jesus has said? Luke doesn’t tell us. He leaves it to our imaginations in a sense. 

It is, perhaps, easiest to imagine the reaction of those tax collectors and sinners. They know where they fit in that story. They are the lost sheep, the lost coin, the lost Son. Who knows how they ended up being lost. Maybe, like the sheep, it was an accident? They started walking down a path until one day they looked up, and they didn’t know where the fold was. Maybe they got lost like the coin? Someone pushed them, whether purposely or accidentally, off the table and they rolled under the couch, unseen and unheard. Maybe they were like the Son? They made a decision one day, and they left and didn’t look back until things got bad, and they’re trying to find a way out. Those tax collectors and sinners know what it’s like to be lost. And they know what it’s like to be found. After all, here’s Jesus who has come looking for them–calling them, asking them to follow him, searching them out wherever they are. He’s telling them, the forgotten about and the pushed aside and the wandering, that there is grace enough for them and that the God of the Universe loves them and wants to know them! 

Maybe you have been there. Maybe you have been in that low, forgotten place. And maybe you saw the shepherd round the corner. Maybe you saw the woman light that lamp and search. Maybe you saw the father running for you as you crested the hilltop. My friend, you know the grace of God. You’re open to the grace of God. And the thing about being open to the grace of God–it means you’re open to giving grace freely, for you have received it freely. 

But what about those starchy religious leaders? Their reaction is harder to predict, perhaps. They’ve spent their lives doing what they know is right. They’ve never left the sheep fold; they’ve never been pushed off and rolled out of sight; they’ve never packed up and left. At least, as far as they know. They’re the 99, the 9 coins, the older son. They are in their pew Sunday after Sunday. Their Book of Common Prayer is worn and falls open to page 355. They close the hymnal before the hymn ends because they know the last verse. They are the vestry members, the volunteer organizers, the good ones who show up. 

Jesus is holding up a mirror to them. That’s what parables do. Like the elder son, they are grumbling that the prodigal has returned and is welcomed back. He has some rough edges and needs a good bath, and he has really caused some damage. Does he deserve to be here, too, after all he has done? 

Like those ninety-nine sheep, they don’t understand why the shepherd leaves them, the ones who did everything right, to go after the one that always runs off and had it coming anyway. And sure, maybe they didn’t bleat when they saw him sneaking away. Maybe they didn’t try to alert the shepherd when this other fellow was wandering off, but are they their brother’s keeper? Can they be responsible for that? 

Like those nine coins, they were just fine. What value did that tenth coin add in the end, really? Couldn’t he find a different collection to be with? And yes, they saw what happened. They saw when that other coin was rolled off the table and pushed out. Maybe they helped that process along, just a little, by isolating that tenth coin and not letting him be a full member of the collection. But he was expendable–he was a little dinghy anyway. Now they have grown used to being a group of nine, and they are happy just as they are. Reservations for nine are easier to get than reservations for ten. Groups of nine have more of that family feeling than groups of ten. 

Why should the elder son, the ninety-nine sheep, and the nine coins have a party? Why should they celebrate? Foolish sons make stupid decisions. Wandering sheep get lost. Coins that don’t fit in aren’t trying hard enough to belong.  

This second group, they don’t know the grace of God–not really. They’re closed off to the grace of God. And the thing about being closed off to the grace of God–it means you’re closed off to giving grace freely, because how can you give something freely if you haven’t received it already, freely?

All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. He was visiting St. Alban’s, and there might be a potluck or something. They crowded in–male and female, old and young, Republican and Democrat, rich and poor, black and white, straight and gay. The preacher said, “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” They responded, “Alleluia. Christ is risen.” They stood up when they were supposed to kneel and didn’t know how to cross themselves. “The gifts of God for the people of God,” came the invitation. They came up to the altar, but didn’t know how to hold their hands. Maybe they didn’t even know what was going on. After they went back to their pews and talked about the dove hunt last weekend. And the Pharisees and the scribes, the religious folk who knew what to do, I wonder if they were grumbling. Or maybe they were smiling, and rejoicing, and praising God, because the whole family is here.  

A sermon for Proper 16
August 21, 2022

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you,” so says the Lord to the prophet Jeremiah. God is calling Jeremiah to his vocation, to the life of a prophet, to speak difficult truths and warnings to the people of Judah. Jeremiah speaks at a difficult moment–at a time when everyone wants to close their ears to anything that makes them uncomfortable. It will become a time of great suffering and hardship, as the empire of Babylon lays siege to Jerusalem and ultimately destroys it. Solomon’s temple will be gone. Countless lives lost. Much of the people carried off into exile. Jeremiah was chosen for this moment, to be a prophet at this time.

I cannot help but think of that line in the Lord of the Rings. ‘“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”’

It is not surprising that Jeremiah objects. He says, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” Like Moses before the burning bush and all the other prophets, Jeremiah wants to hold back. He wants to take the easier path. It’s a difficult time, Lord. Not only that, but Jeremiah comes from a complicated family history, from a line of priests that was sent away in exile to the boonies a long time ago by King Solomon for a political faux pas. Jeremiah is not only young, but his family is a problem. People know his family name; they remember the shame; they know his secret. How can he possibly speak with any authority, with any power, with any persuasion, at this difficult time? 

God dispenses with Jeremiah’s excuses. Go, God says, and do not be afraid. Because I am with you. When you’re speaking difficult truths to a stubborn king, I am with you. When you’re ridiculed in the streets, I am with you. When you’re thrown to the bottom of a pit and left to die, I am with you. When you’re in a besieged city, I am with you. When everything around you is destroyed, I am with you. When you’re left alone by everyone else, I am with you. I am with you always, for I have appointed you and consecrated you–set you apart for a special purpose. I am with you always, so do not be afraid, Jeremiah. Do not be afraid; look to God for all that you need. 

Today we are baptizing Hannah, and I wonder if we can hear God speaking to her, and to each of us, in these words to the prophet. Hannah, before I formed you in the womb I knew you; and before you were born I consecrated you. Hannah may not be appointed as a prophet to the nations (maybe she will be), but God has already spoken purpose to her soul. This purpose is made evident today as she is brought to the waters of baptism, where she is made a child of God, marked as Christ’s own forever, sealed by the Holy Spirit, set on a path of grace. Her calling–and the calling of each one of us who is baptized into the Body of Christ–is to proclaim Christ in word and deed; to show the goodness and love of God by her life; to live in the Spirit; to walk this path of grace with the help of Jesus and all of us. 

Like Jeremiah, she is called to live this life of God’s love and goodness and peace in a world that so often is filled with violence and hatred and fear. It can be difficult, scary even, to be a beacon in such a place. Jeremiah says, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy. Hannah is only an infant; who is she to turn the tide away from violence to love, away from hatred to goodness, away from fear to peace? Who is any of us to turn the tide? 

Who are we? We are children of the living God, redeemed by the life, death, and resurrection of Christ himself. And this God who has called Hannah, this God who has called each of us, is present here and now to work through us–no matter the odds, no matter the difficulties, come what may. 

So do not be afraid. Do not be afraid, Hannah. Do not be afraid, children of the Most High God. Follow where God leads. Live the life you have been called to live–lives that reflect the character and nature of God. As we will sing in a moment, so I say now: Look to God; do not be afraid. Lift up your voices, the Lord is near! 

We cannot know what God has in store for Hannah–that is true for all of us. But we can teach her, by our words and actions, what it means to trust God and not be afraid. We can show her, by our words and actions, what it means to follow where God leads, come what may, and to know that we are never forsaken, never abandoned, always loved. We can encourage her to live her life in a way that proclaims the love and goodness and peace of our great God who has given everything for us, and to walk that path of grace, however imperfectly, knowing that Jesus is walking right beside her. It’s our job to do those things for her as the Body of Christ. 

This past week the renowned theologian, author, and Presbyterian minister, Frederick Buechner, died. I want to leave us with his words, words that speak to Hannah today and, I hope, to all of us in our Christian journeys: 

Hannah, “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you. There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.”

A sermon for Proper 15
August 14, 2022

Like last week, our reading from Hebrews is all about faith. I think faith is one of the most misunderstood concepts in Christianity. That’s a problem. When we see faith wrong, it will ultimately lead us to see God wrong. We call that idolatry. 

Sometimes we can see faith as tokens we have because we’re really good boys and girls and try really hard. Put our five tokens of faith in the God-machine and get out a blessing. Not only is that the wrong way of seeing faith, but it’s the wrong way of seeing God. We end up worshiping a vending machine that is supposed to work for us! 

Instead, faith is rooted in a trusting relationship with God. Faith must be rooted in understanding who God is–our creator, our master, our friend. We dare to put it all in God’s hands, come what may. We trust that God’s got us, that God’s holding us, that God loves us, that God is bringing us home. We trust, even when things are bad or go a way we don’t like. That’s faith. 

Another way we get faith wrong is we think it’s an individual endeavor. We think faith is all about me, about what I think, about how I can impact what’s going on around me. We make religion all about me, me, me. 

But here’s the thing: religion, the word, means to bind together. True religion, or we might say true faith, is about binding us to God and to one another. We cannot be Christians on our own. Obviously we need to be yoked to Jesus. But we also need to be yoked to one another, bound together on this journey. Bound together, not just to people we like or who are like us, but bound together to the whole Body of Christ.  

In addition to the Body of Christ around us right now, Hebrews reminds us that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, by those faithful who have gone before us. The saints. People like Abraham, Isaiah, Jeremiah. People like John the Baptist, James, and Mary. People like our grandparents who prayed with us; our parents who dragged us to church; all of those whom we love but see no longer. The great cloud that is supporting us in ways we cannot fully understand. 

The Christian life is a marathon. Hebrews today calls it a race that is set before us. If we’re going to finish this race, we need to lay aside those things that are slowing us down–the sin that clings so closely. We need to lay aside the ways we try to manipulate God, the ways we think this faith thing is all about us and what we can do by our own strength. And then we need to put on the true yoke of faith that binds us to Christ and to one another. 

We run this marathon together. We run it imperfectly, but Christ helps us along the way, and we help one another. We don’t give up, because it doesn’t all depend on us. And if we persevere, with the help of Christ and that great cloud of witnesses, we will make it. In the end, maybe that’s the best image of true faith. 

A sermon preached for Proper 14
August 7, 2022

Our reading from Hebrews today comes from that famous faith chapter. You know the one. The chapter starts out, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” The writer then lists out what those heroes of the old testament did by faith. We heard today about Abraham–a man who left everything he knew because God promised to show him another country. A man who imperfectly clung to the promise of God that he would be the father of many nations, even though he and his wife Sarah had no children. 

Faith: the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Or as another translator put it, “Now faithfulness is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of unseen realities.” Evidence of unseen realities: not mirages, not phantoms, not figments of imagination, but realities that already exist in the mind of God. Unseen realities we are bold enough to grab and hold onto, even now. Unseen realities that shape how we live in this world.

Be like Abraham, Hebrews is telling us. Follow God from where you are now to a country that God will show you–follow God to an unseen reality–not desiring to go back to where you came from, but leaning forward to a future only God knows. 

What is that future? Hebrews is talking about heaven, life eternal with God. The writer says that these faithful heroes desired a better country, that is, a heavenly one, the city prepared for them. We are to desire that heavenly country, too. Our animating desire should be life eternal with God–a gift that comes to us from God by grace through faith in Christ Jesus. Faith is daring to believe that God is taking us there. Faith is holding onto God and keeping the destination in mind. Faith is believing the promise–that this world is not the end, but that there awaits a new place of redemption, of renewal, of rest, of resurrection. We keep looking to the horizon of heaven by faith. 

But that doesn’t get us off the hook in this world. I grew up singing a hymn, maybe you did, too. It says, “this world is not my home, I’m just a-passin’ through.” I think hymns like this one do us a disservice, because they set up heaven as an escape, and they can give us permission to get through this world as quickly as possible, without even looking around us. If that’s the case, we’ve missed something important. For while we keep one eye on the horizon of heaven, looking to the promise of life eternal, we keep another eye right here, trained on what’s going on at this present moment. 

That’s what Jesus is saying in today’s gospel. He says, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Don’t be afraid, good people of God; keep your eye trained on that heavenly horizon. It is the Father’s good pleasure to have a place prepared for you–a place that has plenty of good room for you and all God’s children. But then immediately Jesus gives us instructions for the here and now: “Sell your possessions, and give alms.” In doing so, Jesus says that we will be making purses for ourselves that do not wear out, “an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” 

I like talking about heaven. I bet you do, too. But when we bring up what Jesus says today, it makes me uncomfortable. Because I got a little money in the bank. And I like nice things. 

Sell your possessions, and give alms. Now before we all go out and have a big yard sale, let’s pause. It’s okay to have some money in the bank. It’s okay to have some nice things. It’s not okay to be enslaved to those things and to make them more important than Jesus. It’s not okay to be enslaved to those things and make them more important than your neighbor. 

Jesus gives us this command for two reasons. First, he knows that our things, more than anything else, can distract us from that heavenly horizon. We get so preoccupied with what we have or what we don’t have, that we lose sight of a heavenly reward. We work so hard to build treasures here on earth, that we forget about heaven altogether. That’s what the parable of the rich fool was about last week–the one who built barns and bigger barns to hoard all of his stuff, and none of it went with him when he died. 

The second reason Jesus gives us this command is that when we give alms, when we care for the least of those around us, we are caring for Christ himself. In Matthew 25, the righteous ask Jesus, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry, or thirsty, or naked, or in prison?” What does Jesus say? As you do it to one of the least of my brothers and sisters in need, you have done it unto me. Jesus is reminding us, especially those of us with a little money in the bank, that our wealth comes with ethical obligations toward others. And if we are unwilling to fulfill those obligations, we don’t have our eyes on that heavenly horizon. 

Looking to the heavenly horizon is about a lot more than what’s coming after death. It’s also about how we live right now. How are we storing up treasure in heaven right now? Because I promise you, we are all storing treasure somewhere. We just have to make sure it’s going into the right account. With faith in those things hoped for and that unseen reality, let’s keep our eyes on Jesus, never wavering. Let’s watch out for Jesus to come on that heavenly horizon in the clouds of glory. And let’s watch for Jesus to show up on our doorstep in the form of a neighbor in need. If we do that, we will never be short on real treasure–the treasure that lasts for eternal life. 

A sermon preached on the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 11
July 17, 2022
Luke 10:38-42

We come today to a familiar passage of scripture. We read that Martha, who has a sister named Mary, welcomes Jesus into her home. That is to say, Martha is in charge. We know from the gospel of John that these are the sisters of Lazarus, whom Jesus raises from the dead. They are Jesus’s good friends, and they give this rabbi who normally does not have a place to lay his head, a bed for the night. They welcome him, and with him his company of disciples. 

These two sisters take very different approaches to Jesus’s visit. Mary, we read, sits and listens at Jesus’s feet. She takes the position of a disciple, learning from the master. Martha, on the other hand, gets to work getting things ready. Cooking. Setting the table. Getting the wine. All of the things that go into making a visit like this one a success. More than that, these things were demanded by society. In Jesus’s time, hospitality, welcoming others into your home, was not just a matter of being polite. It was a religious obligation. Martha is trying to fulfill what God expects. It is not an accident that in Greek, the words for “many tasks” are polle diakonia. Diakonia–we get deacon from that word. Service is an important, even religious, matter. 

Is it any wonder, then, that she gets frustrated with her sister? Her sister, who is supposed to answer to her, the matron of the house, is off listening to Jesus. Gabbing. Martha goes to Jesus. “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” Maybe you’ve felt like her before. Maybe there have been times when you’ve felt like everything depended on you and no one was around to help. And let’s be honest; these important things must get done. 

Jesus responds in a way that might make us uncomfortable, especially those of us occupied with those polle diakonia, those important, religious tasks of hospitality. “Martha, Martha,” he says, his voice full of compassion, “you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” The better part. Those words must have stung Martha. 

There is a long history of interpreters wrestling with this text. Generally, you’ll find two interpretations. The first is something like: Mary represents the contemplative, prayer, study, things like that. Martha represents the active, doing things in the world, working. Mary, the contemplative, is better than the active. You should seek to be contemplative, and don’t worry about the active part of faith. A second interpretation is similar. Mary represents the contemplative and Martha represents the active. Some of us are one, while others are the other. It’s okay. Don’t try to be something you’re not. 

I think both of these are wrong. I think Jesus is speaking not to the form of our discipleship, but to our focus. I happen to believe that all of us are called to be like Mary, the contemplative, spending time in prayer at the feet of Jesus. I also believe we’re called to be like Martha, putting our prayers into action, doing the work of God to which we have been called. The question is not, are you a Martha or a Mary? The question is not, is Mary better than Martha? The question is, regardless of what you’re being called to at any given moment, are you focused on Jesus? For that’s the better part. It’s about our focus. 

Clearly, it’s easy to be like Martha and get away from that focus. It’s easy to get caught up in our tasks, our work, our service, diakonia, and forget why we’re doing what we’re doing. It becomes less about Jesus and more about ourselves. When that happens, watch out. 

But you can also be like Mary and lose focus. Growing up my church had prayer meeting every Monday night. I went every Monday night. And every Monday night I took a nap under the pew. 

The truth is, sometimes our faith calls us to be like Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus, absorbing his teaching, listening intently. At other times, our faith calls us to be like Martha, getting to work, doing good service, taking part in that diakonia religious duty. We’re both-and people. Regardless of what we’re up to, our focus must be Jesus, Jesus, and Jesus. We don’t do anything for ourselves and our glory. We do everything for Jesus. 

But here’s the deal: We cannot be Martha until we’ve spent time being Mary. We cannot be Martha until we’ve spent time being Mary. We cannot serve until we have learned from the feet of Jesus. Our service means little unless we are connected to Jesus and learning from him. 

Let me be blunt and put it this way: You can work at the food bank all day every day, but unless you are praying, studying, learning from Jesus, and receiving strength weekly from this altar, your service is more about you than it is about God. 

Friends, we cannot neglect our spiritual health. We cannot neglect our relationship with Jesus. We cannot neglect that time learning at his feet. Or we will find that we do become worried and distracted by many things, and we lose focus on the one who is the way, the truth, and the life. 

Thankfully, we have the opportunity like Mary to come to the feet of Jesus. As the old hymn says, to “look full in his wonderful face.” We will be blessed so we can be a blessing. We will be fed so we can feed others. We will be loved, so that we might share that love with a broken world. Regardless of what we’re being called to do at any given moment, when our focus is on Jesus, we’re learning that “better part” that Mary knew about. And that will never be taken away from us. 

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 9
July 3, 2022

There are some people in this world who get what they want when they want it. They snap, and they have it. That’s a perk of the powerful. Everyone answers their phone calls; everyone wants them on their board of directors; everyone knows their name. These folks don’t have to put up with some of the stuff we normal folks put up with. They get the short lines, the direct access. They don’t have to do things they don’t want to do. 

Naaman in our Old Testament reading is like that. He’s the general in Aram, the bigwig. He’s a powerful man. He snaps, and he gets what he wants. But then something happens to him that is beyond his control. He gets leprosy. 

The uncontrollable happens to all of us, no matter who we are, no matter how powerful we are. And no, I’m not talking about the President of the United States falling off a bicycle here. Steve Jobs, an innovator who made a lot of money, dies from pancreatic cancer. Ronald Reagan, one of the most influential and powerful presidents of the modern era, suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. Stephen Hawking, endowed by God with such gifts for intelligence and discovery, gets ALS. The rich, the powerful, the intelligent, the Naamans of the world–the uncontrollable happens to them, just as it happens to us. That’s the cost of mortality. 

Naaman is distraught. But there is an enslaved girl working in his house, someone he had taken captive and tore from all she knew. This enslaved girl knew about uncontrollable things happening–she knew what that was like, the pain, the heartache, the helplessness. Unlike Naaman, powerlessness was her reality. She could snap all she wanted to, but no one was going to come running. And yet, some deep well of charity within her points her captor in the direction of healing: “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.”

So Naaman goes to Israel. After a dramatic episode with the king, the prophet Elisha gives him instructions: dip in the Jordan river seven times. That’s it. Simple enough. But Naaman gets angry. He’s not used to being treated like this. He has no desire to dip in the muddy and dirty and septic Jordan. He would rather go home, to Damascus, and enjoy the waters there. He wants the prophet to wave his hand, and with a dramatic gesture, to cure him. 

For Naaman, this backwater place he’s come to for healing is a long way from Damascus. It’s a long way from his comfort zone. He can’t snap and get what he wants here. He doesn’t get the best water here–no, he has to use the same water everyone else is using. No special treatment. But he finally relents. He dips seven times. And he is healed. 

You and I are called to the waters for healing, too. Each and every one of us, no matter our station in life, no matter the money in our bank accounts, no matter the power of our position–each and every one of us is born with that leprosy of Naaman’s. It is sin. It is hardwired into us, into our natures. That’s what we mean by original sin. 

But we are not left without a cure. Like that enslaved girl in today’s story, there are voices all around us, from Scripture, from our tradition, telling us of the hope of healing: “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.” If only you knew about Jesus and his saving life, death, and resurrection, you can be cured of your curse of sin and death. 

That cleansing hope is not found where we expect it. Perhaps, like Naaman, we expect the clean and pristine waters of Damascus. Perhaps, like Naaman, we expect something big and theatrical, the waving of a hand, the muttering of words, the magicking away of sin. Instead, we are brought to a little font, a little bowl, a little water. Perhaps the blue waters of the Gulf would be our preference. Maybe we would rather be at Lake Hamilton or Greers Ferry. But salvation is not found there. Healing is not found in those waters. No, it is found in a little bowl, in a little font, a handful at a time: in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. 

It’s a long way from Damascus. This unassuming place is a long way from those waters we prefer, those places we pine for. But there’s salvation in these waters. There’s healing in these waters. In an instant, our souls are regenerated, transformed, made into a new creation. The curse of sin and death is obliterated. We are taken from a path of sin and put on a path of grace, forgiven and restored and adopted and marked as Christ’s own forever. And this promise is for anyone who desires to come to these waters. You don’t have to be a Naaman. You just have to be yourself as God created you. The water is there for us. 

Naaman went home after that. That was enough for him. But we keep coming back. We keep coming back to these waters, to this place of hope and healing. We come to this altar, and here, as we take bread and wine, we renew our baptisms, and our bonds to Christ and to one another are strengthened. And more healing gets in. The Holy Spirit keeps up the good work in us. And healing, full and complete salvation, it comes. Bit by bit, sip by sip. 

There’s still a lot we cannot control in this world. Powerful or not, rich or not, smart or not, savvy or not–the world throws its worst at us regardless. It’s out of our control, and the unexpected happens. Singer-songwriter Adele said it this way in a recent hit: “There ain’t no gold in this river that I’ve been washin’ my hands in forever.” She goes on, “I know there is hope in these waters but I can’t bring myself to swim when I am drowning in this silence.” If Adele would answer my phone call, I would tell her: Friend, you won’t find the hope you’re looking for in those waters. But I know where there are some hope-filled waters. That’s my message for us today, too. 

Yes, the waters in this world are out of our control. But the good news is, we don’t have to control them. Because when we come to these waters, when we come to this altar, when we come to our God, we approach the One who controls it all. We put our hope in God, now and forever. And God heals our souls. And nothing in this world or the next, no matter how bad or uncontrollable–nothing is able to take that hope and promise of God’s healing love away from us. 

A sermon for the Feast of St. Alban, Martyr (transferred)
June 26, 2022

This Sunday, we are celebrating our respective patron saints at both St. Peter’s and St. Alban’s. The Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul is June 29, and the Feast of St. Alban is June 22. We’re transferring both of them to this Sunday, the fourth Sunday in June. The purpose of celebrating our patron saints’ days is to give thanks for the life and witness of our patron saint, and to thank God for our community of faith here. We pray that God would empower us to follow the example of our patron, living more fully into Christ day by day as we are sanctified by the power of the Holy Spirit. And today is a good opportunity to be reminded of our saint’s story. 

St. Alban was a Roman soldier in present-day England. It wasn’t known as England back then. Scholars now put his in the year 209, during the persecutions of Emperor Septimus Severus. During those persecutions, a priest on the run came knocking on his door, seeking shelter. Alban let him in. And something happened. In talking with the priest, in seeing this humble priest’s life and witness, Alban was converted to Christianity. When the soldiers came to take the priest away, Alban put on the priest’s clothes and took his place. He went to the executioner and confessed, “I worship and adore the true and living God who created all things.” And he was killed with the sword, the first martyr of the British Isles. 

He is a saint, a holy one, someone whose life and witness show us clearly what it means to follow Jesus and lead a life of faith, hope, and love. One who has been caught up into heaven and brought into the nearer presence of Christ to pray for us. 

Not all saints are martyrs, like Alban. There are all kinds of saints. In addition to the martyrs, there are faithful prayer warriors; there are theologians and thinkers; there are deacons, priests, bishops, and a whole lot of lay folks; there are monks and nuns and ordinary people living in the world; there are young saints and old saints, rich saints and poor saints, pretty saints and ugly saints. Saints from every race and people and nation. Saints we know, and perhaps many more saints that are known only to God.  

Regardless of differences in life and death, to be a saint boils down to one simple thing. A saint is someone who has given in completely to the grace of God, has completely surrendered to the will of God for them in life and in death. One Persian poet, Hafez, described sainthood in this poem:

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?

The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God

And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move

That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.

“You still think you have a thousand serious moves.” Yes, that describes me. I’m not good at that surrendering thing. Sainthood is still far off. But the honest truth is, I want to be a saint. And I hope you do, too. I want my life to point fully to Christ, to confess fully in life and in death, whenever and however death comes, that Jesus is Lord–and nothing else, not even me, can compete with his lordship. I want my life and my death to show that I worship and adore the true and living God who created all things. And I believe that the Holy Spirit is still working on me, pushing me to greater sanctification, pushing me to be a saint. But becoming a saint isn’t easy stuff. It means surrendering, giving in to God’s grace and God’s will completely. It is joyously crying “I surrender,” “not my will but thy will be done.” 

We sing that little song about saints. We say, “And I want to be one, too.” I certainly hope we want to be a saint. But be careful what you pray! At the beginning, we should just know: If we’re serious about becoming a saint, the Spirit will get to work, purging away those things that stand in the way of our complete surrender to God. It might be painful. But the joys of heaven will be worth it all. Following Jesus will be worth it all. Knowing the love of God, deeply and fully and completely, will be worth it all. 

I know a living saint. Or I think she’s a living saint. Her name is Julia. She would probably be embarrassed, maybe indignant, if she knew I was saying this. But I think it’s true. It’s the fruit I can see in her life. And when I see her life, my spirit immediately knows that’s where I want to be, no matter the cost. But it comes at a cost. 

Julia is a learned woman, an important scholar, a faithful priest in this Church. She’s a loving mother and grandmother. She’s a dear professor. But none of that makes her a saint. Those things don’t hurt–but those things alone do not a saint make. No, what makes her a saint is that she has given in, as far as I can see, to the will and grace of God, completely surrendered. I heard a conversation about her once. Folks were talking about her and her influence on them. They talked about her scholarly work, her priest work, her work as a professor, her friendship and personality. But the true mark of sainthood was revealed after that. A man, a fellow professor and scholar of hers, said this: Mother Julia really knows Jesus. That’s a saint.  

“They were all of them saints of God and I mean, God helping, to be one, too.” Be careful what you pray. If you really want to be a saint, the Holy Spirit will make you one. And once you have surrendered completely to God’s grace and will, you’ll never look back, and you’ll never regret the cost. Bursting out in laughter and tripping over joy, you’ll give up on those thousand serious moves you once thought you had in this chess game with God. You will gladly cry, “I surrender! Checkmate!” And then you will really know Jesus.  

A sermon for the Second Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 7
June 19, 2022

There’s some part of us that likes to be scared. I’m not talking about the innocent Halloween type of scared. I’m talking about something darker, something buried deep down in secret places. The type of darkness that would drive people to flock to roadside shows to see people trapped in cages, dressed in tatters–the outcasts of society, the sick, the scary ones. Deep down, in some dark place, we like to be scared. 

There’s something reminiscent of that in the man from the gospel today. Jesus crosses the Sea of Galilee into Gentile country. Once there, he meets a man. Possessed by demons, this man would run naked through the city streets and lived in a graveyard. It’s not a stretch to imagine the social ridicule he would have faced. Kids daring one another, betting how close they could get to the man. “I dare you to go inside the graveyard where that man lives. I double dog dare you to go touch the fence of the graveyard. I’ll give you five dollars if you poke that man with this stick.” Perhaps parents would warn their children using this man as a sort of boogeyman. “You’d better eat your green beans or the graveyard man will eat you. Don’t run off or you might be taken by the graveyard man. You’d better be good or you’ll end up like him.” 

I can’t help but wonder how long it had been since anyone actually talked to him before Jesus today. How long since someone had looked him in the eye? 

You know the story. Jesus shows up and sees this graveyard man, running naked among the tombs. Jesus asks the demons their name. “Legion,” they answer. The name is no accident. A legion was a unit of about 5,000 Roman soldiers, and that the demons answer to that name is suggestive of the Empire’s demonic sway, of the evil powers and principalities of this world that rebel against God even now. Jesus casts Legion out into a herd of pigs and they drown themselves in the sea. 

The man is dressed, restored, renewed, and healed. The people of the town see him healed, dressed, talking with Jesus. They see a man liberated from the power of hell and sin. And they rejoice! Right? They celebrate and throw a party! Right? No. The gospel tells us, “And they were afraid.” And they ask Jesus to leave. 

And they were afraid. Not like before, when they would point at the man, ridicule him, ignore his suffering for a good laugh or just blame it all on his own choices. No, this is a different kind of fear. The fear of being found out. 

Now they see this man healed. Their scapegoat is gone. Their boogeyman is history. And maybe they were confronted with that dark place in themselves that had so often turned a blind eye, or worse, added to his suffering. Maybe they were confronted with their own need for healing. Maybe they were afraid that just as Jesus saw through the demoniac, he could see through them, too. They may not be running through the city naked and living in a graveyard, but they needed healing, too. They needed a messiah, too. Faced with the power of God to heal and save, they turn away, afraid. Go away, Jesus. 

There’s an old story about St. Augustine of Hippo. He prayed that God would reach down and pull him out of his sin and misery. He would pray earnestly, “Please, God, make me good, but not just yet.” Go away, Jesus. I can see that I need healing, just like this man. But not just yet. 

We live in a world that is not so different from the one in today’s gospel. The world needs the healing power of Jesus to lift us out of sin and death and into the life of God. But like today’s gospel reading, our world is one in which people shrink from the saving help of God. Too often, we ask Jesus to leave town, to circle back at a later time, to make us good–but not just yet. 

Our job as the Church in such a world is to keep bringing Jesus–to keep showing up with his promise of love, healing, redemption, and grace. And when Jesus and his way of radical and accepting love for all are pushed to the side and ignored, we keep bringing Jesus anyway. Because that is what our world needs more than ever before: a loving Savior who can heal us all and bring us all into the light. 

As for you and me, may we never ask Jesus to go away. For when Jesus shows up in our lives with his love and mercy and grace, we may be like those townspeople in today’s gospel, afraid of being found out. My message today is this: Let Jesus find us out. He already knows anyway. And what he wants more than anything else is for us to be transformed, changed to be more like him–day by day, to embody and show what it means to follow him and walk his way of love. May our prayer, today and everyday, be this: God, make me good. Change me to be more like you. And do it right now. 

A sermon for Trinity Sunday
June 12, 2022

Today is Trinity Sunday, a feast in the Church when we celebrate that we serve a triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Three persons but one being, one God. This is who God has told us he is. The Trinity is God’s self-revelation. We did not puzzle this out on our own; God revealed it. This is not our best guess at who God is; God revealed it. God has been revealed as Trinity: Father, Son, Holy Spirit, one God. That’s just who God is. 

Did you notice how each person of the Trinity is mentioned in our gospel lesson? Jesus, the Son, is speaking to his disciples. He says the Spirit will come to teach them all things. Jesus says that the Father has given everything into the Son’s hands. The Spirit will, in turn, give all of those things to the people of God. To us. 

So what, exactly, is Jesus promising that the Spirit will give to us? The Spirit gives us good things–the things that Jesus himself brought in his earthly ministry. The Spirit bestows grace, mercy, forgiveness, healing, hope, truth, peace, goodness, wisdom, blessing, beauty, power, courage, love, intimacy with God. Those are the good things we are promised–and the list doesn’t stop there! 

We need all of these good things now, don’t we? We need them, and our world needs them. There is a lot of pain around us and in our own lives. There is pain in our world. To face all of that alone is a fool’s errand. We just can’t do it by ourselves. We need help and power. We need grace and strength. We need faith and hope. We need the love of God. And all of that has been promised to us. Jesus tells us today that the Holy Spirit is pouring out those very things, even now, as gifts of God to the people of God.  

St. Paul knew something about pain and struggles in this life. He writes from personal experience today in our reading from Romans. He says, “we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” St. Paul is reminding us that we suffer in this world–as if we needed any reminder. We know pain and grief and sorrow. There’s no need to hide our eyes from it or try to ignore it. It’s there. But, St. Paul says, we are not left comfortless. God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Spirit, just as Jesus said, because we have been reconciled, reconnected to God through faith in Christ. Because God’s love, God’s very Spirit, has been poured out into our hearts, we can endure, holding fast to our hope. 

We hold fast to our hope. St. Paul says our hope does not disappoint us. One translator puts it this way: “Hope does not prove an embarrassment.” Hope in what? Hope in God. Hope in those good and needed things the Spirit is giving to us. Hope in God’s presence in our lives, even in the middle of our suffering. Hope that our suffering, our pain, the bad things in this world, do not win in the end. For we have been claimed by God. God’s love, God’s Spirit has been poured out into us. And because of that, we will be with God forever. And nothing can separate us from God’s love. That hope will not disappoint; you can count on it. 

The Trinity has a reputation for being difficult to understand, and sermons on Trinity Sunday are known for being difficult and heavy and intense. But here’s the long and short of the Trinity. God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, one God. Three persons but one Being. And that God is with us. That God invites us into friendship, into relationship, into intimacy. That God fills our hearts and gives us strength to face whatever this world throws our way. That God will not abandon us. And we can put our hope, our ultimate hope, in that God. For that God is faithful. That God loves us, now and forever.

A sermon for the Feast of Pentecost
June 5, 2022

Today is the Feast of Pentecost, the birthday of the Church. We call it our birthday because it is on this day that the Spirit of God, poured out, creates the Church, the Body of Christ. We are only the Church, the Body of Christ, through the power of the Holy Spirit. It is not our good works that make us the Church; it is not who we are that makes us the Church; it is, rather, the Spirit and the grace of God poured out into us that makes us the Church, uniting us to one another, and to the Body of Christ throughout the world and throughout time. 

Today we read about how that Holy Spirit was poured out on the Church. The disciples have gathered in Jerusalem in obedience to Christ. He told them to wait in Jerusalem for the promised Spirit, and wait they did. For ten days. Praying. Fasting. Wondering. And then it happened. Acts tells us that the Spirit of God descends on them like fire, like a violent wind. It is the same violent wind that brooded upon the waters at the beginning of creation. And like then, the Spirit is making something new on this day: a new Body, infused with the Holy Spirit, empowered to bear witness to Christ and to tell of how he has saved us. The disciples begin to speak in other languages–the languages of those around them–so that they may share the Good News, the Gospel of Christ. Barriers that divide are broken down. Differences in language, nation, culture, class, race, gender–they cannot stop the liberating power of the Spirit.  

You and I, heirs of those first Christians, have the same promised Spirit. The Holy Spirit lives within us, empowering us to share the Good News, leading us to follow Christ in this world that needs to see him now more than ever. The Holy Spirit, in whom we live and move and have our being, makes us children of God, makes our hearts the throne of God, makes our bodies the Temple of God. 

In Romans today, St. Paul says we did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear. We did not receive a spirit that keeps us bound to sin and death. We did not receive a spirit that cannot liberate us from the evil around us. And take a look, there is evil around us. The false gods of this world seek to impose their will. We see the will of the false gods of this world when we see bombed out buildings and rows of headstones with the names of the fallen. We see the will of the false gods of this world when we see children hungry, seniors unable to afford food or medication. We see the will of the false gods of this world when we see people divided by race, by class, by gender, by who God made them to be. We see the will of the false gods of this world when we see hatred infesting hearts, innocents slaughtered in grocery stores, doctors’ offices, and schools. And we may be tempted to shrink back in fear–because what can we do? We may be tempted to shrink back in fear–because how can we escape, how can we not be bound to this cycle of abuse and violence? We may be tempted to shrink back in fear–because who are we against such terror? 

You and I? Who are we? We’re children of the Most High God. “We did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear,” St. Paul says. No, “we have received a spirit of adoption.” We have been made children of God Almighty, the Lord of Life and Love. So we can stand up, come what may. We do not need to be afraid, come what may. We can have courage, come what may. Because we know God hears us when we cry out to him: Abba! Father! 

We are not insulated from the bad things that happen in this world. In fact, St. Paul says we will suffer in this world, just as our Lord suffered in this world. Our world is fallen, and you and I are impacted by evil. But we are not enslaved to it. We are free–free from its power–because we know that evil does not get the last word. Sin does not get the last word. Satan himself does not get the last word. 

No, God gets the last word. God gets the victory. Glory awaits. And at the end we will see Christ standing victorious over all the violence, all the hatred, all the bigotry, all the pain, all the tears, all the hardship, all the evil, all the despair. We will see Christ wipe away every tear from our eyes. We will see Christ make a new heaven and a new earth, where there is neither pain nor grief, but life eternal. We will see Christ banish fear, and violence, and hatred, along with that old Serpent, forever. 

But for now, as we live in this world, we take heart. We have courage. We believe in the promises and power of God. Because the Spirit of God lives within us. The Spirit of God empowers us, and strengthens us, and gives us the boldness to face down evil when it comes our way. We are children of God. We are joint heirs with Christ. And God is on our side. 

So happy birthday, Church. All of that is certainly worth celebrating.