Storied Grace

The Angels’ Lullaby

A sermon for Christmas Eve
December 24, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

It must have been something to hear, the angels singing in the fields on the outskirts of Bethlehem. I imagine it sounded like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. If you know that piece, you know that it has cannon fire and bells and brass fanfares. It is loud and glorious and wakes the dead. And surely the fiery angels lit up the sky like fireworks. “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on Earth peace among those whom he favors! Gloria in excelsis Deo!” For the Word Made Flesh, the Son of God, the One Long Hoped For is here at last. I don’t know how it all sounded, but I do know that when God comes among us, there must be music. The night is dark, but the music–the heavenly music–rings out. For how else could heaven and earth welcome their newborn King who is doing a new thing, who has come to save us all?

Joseph’s Prayer

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 21, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 7:10-16; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

It was the tale of two Josephs. It was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times. For each of these Josephs, a difficult calling was issued, a difficult service required, a difficulty that tested righteousness, a difficulty that sapped their strength. No, it was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times. But perhaps there was light, just a flicker of hope.

Making Excuses

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.

Now, Tomorrow, Forever

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent
December 7, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12

John the Baptist appears today in the wilderness, yelling from the bank of a muddy river. He is a difficult personality, and yet folks flock to him, repenting and confessing their sins as they are baptized in the river Jordan. John proclaims that there is one coming after who will finish the work; John is getting us ready for Jesus. Repentance must happen before the Savior can come into our hearts. But it seems, at least in John’s eyes, that not everybody there is interested in repentance. The religious elite, the people who have it all figured out, who look down their righteous noses at others, who see themselves as divinely better than all the rest–they are there, too. Matthew says they have come to be baptized like all the other people. John calls them a brood of vipers. I wonder today: Have you ever met that brood?

Finishing with Grace

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent
November 30, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44

What God has started, God will finish. This is the core conviction of the Advent season. The God who created all things good will come again and restore all things in goodness. The Son of God who died and rose again to reconcile all things to God will come again and finish the work, seated on the throne of grace. The Holy Spirit, who is at work among us even now, will descend with fiery power and heal the universe in love. What God has started, God will finish. And God will finish it with grace.

Singing about the Cross

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 29
(Commonly called Christ the King)
November 23, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Jeremiah 23:1-6 ; Canticle 16 ; Colossians 1:11-20 ; Luke 23:33-43

Our gospel takes us to that most familiar and disorienting scene: the death of Christ on a Roman cross. Scourged, tortured, and beaten, we see him in the moments before he breathes his last and commends his spirit to God the Father.

Today is the last Sunday of the Church year. Another name for today is the feast of Christ the King. Our gospel gives us Christ’s portrait at this final moment of his coronation: his throne is a rude cross that lifts him high for the world to see; his crown is a cruel twist of thorns pushed into the brow; his crimson is not a fine robe, but blood from his very body; his scepter is a nail, pierced through his human flesh. Unexpectedly, in this image, we see the majesty of God–not high and lofty above our cares and concerns, but fleshy, among us, sharing our very death.

God Wins

A sermon for the 23rd Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 28
November 16, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 65:17-25 ; Canticle 9 ; 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13 ; Luke 21:5-19

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.

Those were the words of Isaiah today, prophesying a new world in the midst of destruction, hope in the midst of despair, life in the midst of death. The nation is destroyed, the captors have won, but none of that gets the last word, Isaiah says today. God gets the final word. Darkness and despair and violence and sin and evil do not win. God wins in the end–light and goodness and love win in the end.

Little Is Much

A sermon for All Saints’ Sunday
November 2, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18 ; Psalm 149 ; Ephesians 1:11-23 ; Luke 6:20-31

There once were two brothers. Both wanted to be saints. Both wanted to be good men. They were raised in a good house, given a good foundation. They had learned that little hymn about wanting to be a saint, and meeting saints at school, or in lanes, or at sea, in church, or in trains, or in shoppes, or at tea. The first brother was especially resolved. He would tell his family, his friends, his church, that he wanted to be a spiritual superhero. That’s what he called it. And he looked for opportunities to be a spiritual superhero his entire life. He had a little drawing of St. Michael on his truck visor; it had the inscription, “God, make me your greatest warrior.” He wanted to do something big. After college he joined the Peace Corps. Surely that was his opportunity! But he got bored of the paper work; it wasn’t for him. He joined up with a missionary. Surely that would do it. But all the missionary had him do was drive him around, help make the dinner, and answer phone calls. Too small. The brother returned to the States and took a job at a nonprofit. He worked his way up to president. And he was proud–finally this was his opportunity to make a big impact! But he spent more time planning fundraisers, or looking at spreadsheets, or running meetings. He resigned; it wasn’t big enough, wasn’t “saintly” enough, wasn’t warrior-like enough. Finally he died. His headstone just had his name, his birth date, his death day, like any other headstone. But it could have said something like, “He just never got his chance to prove he was a saint.”

How Lovely Is Your Dwelling-Place

A sermon for the 20th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 25
October 26, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Sirach 35:12-17; Psalm 84:1-6 ; 2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18 ; Luke 18:9-14

I have known lovely houses of worship, dwelling-places of the Divine. St. Luke’s is one of those places. Look around you at the beauty here; this place is designed intentionally to reflect the beauty of God, to capture our imaginations. But I came to know Jesus in a very different sort of place. It did not have stained glass windows; it did not have soaring architecture that draws our hearts to heaven; it did not have the fine organ and choir with four-part harmony. No, it was a converted antique store–more like a barn–with an attached garage where the Ozark Mountain United Pentecostals met. There were no windows, and the flooring needed to be replaced. The baptistery was a horse trough. At that time there was no organ at all. Instead, there was a handful of dear, enthusiastic, but untrained ladies with out-of-tune accordions. I remember it being quite the racket. But lovely nonetheless. Lovely because Jesus was present.

Healing for Our Enemies

A sermon for the 18th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 23
October 12, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c ; Psalm 111 ; 2 Timothy 2:8-15 ; Luke 17:11-19

One of the first things we bought when we moved here was a big jug and water dispenser. I soon became a regular on Fountain Street, filling up this jug with Hot Springs water. I once met a woman there. She pulled out what appeared to be hundreds of milk cartons and orange juice pitchers and water bottles, and she started talking. She asked if I lived in Hot Springs. I told her I did. She told me she had come down to this fountain for decades, and she was glad I found it because it just might save my life. She said, “I don’t go to the doctor anymore. This is healing water. I drink it; I take a bath in it; I only use this water from Fountain Street.” She told me she would clean any cuts or sores she had with it, and they would heal right up. It was miracle-working water. She planned to live to 150, and she thought she could as long as she had this water and her crystal necklace. But she confessed that she was worried. She was worried that if too many people found out, the spring would dry up. She worried, and she told me not to tell any of those out-of-towners about it. This was a secret for the in-crowd only. I hated to tell her that the secret–at least the secret of the water’s existence–was already out.