Episcopal – Page 2 – Storied Grace

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.

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.”

The Cautionary Tale

A sermon for the 17th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 22
October 5, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4 ; Psalm 37:1-10 ; 2 Timothy 1:1-14 ; Luke 17:5-10

“Never pray for patience.” If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times. A woman once told me out of the blue on the street; I had no idea who she was. She said, “Pastor, never pray for patience–I learned my lesson.” I chuckled because I had heard it before, but she was dead serious. She said she prayed for patience once–just one time–and God turned her life upside down: her hypercritical mother-in-law moved in with them due to illness within a month; her spouse suddenly became far more annoying; her dog got diabetes. Never pray for patience–it’s a cautionary tale. A couple times I’ve heard something else similar. I was once told, “Father, I got in trouble because I started to ask God to teach me to love other people more.” The man went on to explain that as soon as he wanted to love more, God sent him all sorts of people he didn’t like, and he didn’t want to love them. But that was his prayer. Before he knew it he found himself back at his family reunion, and he said he hated all of them; the next weekend he was at the cooling shelter, and “those people” were not “his people.” Never pray, teach me to love–it’s a cautionary tale. Perhaps there’s another cautionary tale in today’s gospel reading. My friends, be careful–be careful when you, like the apostles, ask Jesus to increase your faith. Because he just might do it.

A Different Kind of Patron

A sermon for the 15th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 20
September 21, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Amos 8:4-7, Psalm 113, 1 Timothy 2:1-7, Luke 16:1-13

Sometimes Jesus gets on a roll about something. Week after week, we see the same theme pop up in the gospel readings, and we have to wonder, what’s going on? Lately Jesus has been on a roll about our possessions and our money. This week is no different. At the end of today’s reading, Jesus gives us a mic drop: “You cannot serve God and wealth,” he says.

The Line in the Sand

A sermon for the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 18
September 7, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Deuteronomy 30:15-20 ; Psalm 1 ; Philemon 1-21 ; Luke 14:25-33

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple. None of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.”

Some weeks are easier to preach than others. Love each other, Jesus says. Got it. I can preach on that. The kingdom of God is like a seed planted in a field that sprouted and grew, the farmer knew not how. Okay, Jesus, I can preach on that one, too. I suspect you might be like me in that regard. We all can prefer certain things Jesus says–certain easier messages that settle well. I suspect you, like me, might have a similar answer to a question like, what did Jesus teach? We would probably talk about love: loving God and our neighbor. The summary of the law. A very Anglican answer indeed. And that would be a good and fine answer. But I wonder how many of us would answer differently? What are Jesus’s teachings about? I wonder who would say they are about hating family, carrying a cross, and giving up everything we have?

In Memoriam: Catherine Stokes Baran

A sermon at the Burial of the Dead
August 30, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 23; Romans 8:14-19, 34-35, 37-39; John 14:1-6

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers

Those words belong to John Milton’s poem “At a Solemn Music.” The poem, later set to music by Hubert Parry, describes the power of music. Milton takes us to the heights of heaven where the music flows unabated and uncompromised. Milton also dives into our own hearts, where that music, once pure, is so often discordant and corrupted by sin, death, and the sorrows of this life. Milton goes on:

Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais’d phantasie present,
That undisturbèd Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily…
Singing everlastingly;

Great Big Faith

A sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 14
August 10, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Genesis 15:1-6 ; Psalm 33:12-22 ; Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16 ; Luke 12:32-40

I was accused of thinking too small. I was gathered around a table with a group of pastors from different denominations. The question of faith had come up while discussing a church building project. “All I need is $1 million,” a pastor friend had said. Yeah, I’ve thought that, too. He went on, “I have faith that God will make it happen.” He was naming it, throwing it out in the universe, and he was claiming it as his own. He was asking us to have faith with him. Surely if we all did this together, like some incantation, God would have to bring it about–and quickly. The problem for me was I don’t think that’s how faith works. Maybe I was thinking too small. I was told I needed a great big faith.

The Last Accounting

A sermon for the 8th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 13
August 3, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14; 2:18-23 ; Psalm 49:1-11 ; Colossians 3:1-11 ; Luke 12:13-21

The big success story had a tragic bent, one that many people didn’t know about. Bill was a priest who was dying. He had a good and loving family–at least it seemed so. He had gone home on hospice care, and he wasn’t expected to make it long. I was called to administer last rites. I walked into the quiet house and to the back room. Bill was there in his bed, his wife and children with him in the room. The air in the room was sober, and it grew more sober as a man in black walked in. It always does. I had not expected Bill to be conscious, which more and more is the norm for last rites. But he was. I walked over, patted him on his hand, leaned down and said gently, “Hello, Father. I am here to give you last rites.” Bill’s head jerked back. “Last rites?!” He croaked out his alarm. At first it appeared no one had told him he was dying. I learned later he had refused to believe it, convinced he could make it through. But he died that night.