Easter Sermon: As the day was dawning (April 5, 2026)

Resurrection of our Lord
April 5, 2026
Matthew 28

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

I heard a story once about a young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the child prodigy and famous composer. The story goes that when his mother wanted to call him to dinner, she would go to their harpsichord, and play most of a musical scale, leaving it unresolved. (Andrew play up to the 7th.) Young Wolfgang would come racing into the room to finish the scale, unwilling to leave hanging that penultimate tone, called the “leading tone” because it is always meant to lead to resolution. (Andrew play full scale, with a nice, full resolution at the end.) See, much more satisfying!

I don’t know if that story is true, but I can totally relate. I really hate when things are not resolved, and I’m sure I’m not alone in that. That’s why it is so frustrating when you finish a jigsaw puzzle and find the last piece is missing. More seriously, it’s why waiting to hear from the doctor about a test result is so excruciating – even knowing bad news is better than not knowing at all. We like things to be clear, to be known, to be this, or that, but not something in between. That in-between place is tenuous, difficult to grab hold of, and it makes us feel unsettled.

And yet, so much of life is exactly that: a series of events or situations riddled with questions and uncertainty that we can’t quite grab hold of. Should I take that new job that pays more, or stay in this one that I like more? Will my kid get into the program he so desperately wants, and what happens if he doesn’t? What if the news from the doctor isn’t good – how will we manage? What’s going to happen with the economy, and the price of oil? How will any of that affect my 401k? Will the war in Iran escalate or resolve, will it become nuclear, and where will we stand with our allies by the end of this? What will happen to our planet if we don’t address the rapidly changing climate? 

These days, I admit I’m feeling a lot of that anxiety that comes from uncertainty, around issues both personal and global. That’s why the detail I’m drawn to this year in the Easter story is the time of day it takes place: “as the first day of the week was dawning.” As the day was dawning, in that time that is not quite night, and not yet day. I love how artist Grace depicted that on our bulletin cover art: you can see

both the stars of night, and the sun just peeking out over the tomb. It captures so well that the resurrection happened not in the full darkness of night, and not in the full brightness of day, but in that somewhere in between. In that place of unknowing, where we can’t quite find our way, where everything looks a little fuzzy, and there are still so many questions. 

I want to linger here with you a moment, in this liminal space, and marvel that it is here, before the resolution we crave, that is precisely where God chooses to reveal the promise of new life. Right when we are straining for answers, squinting toward the horizon for a glimpse of clarity… and perhaps beginning to lose hope that the certainty and resolution we crave will ever come… that is when God does something remarkable that changes everything.

This feels true and familiar to me. I have been in this place. Not literally, of course – I’ve never knowingly spoken with an angel, or come across a literal empty tomb! But I have been in that place where the in-between-ness has felt like too much for me to handle, and I risked falling into despair. I have felt like those women, losing hope, unsure of what comes next. I have strained toward the hope of the dawn, without really expecting to find anything good there. And, I have been surprised by what I encountered, when I had my guard down. I have felt the ground shake and knock me off balance a bit, only to find that the earthquake opened the tomb and allowed new life to emerge. I’ve been caught by the news that where I expected to find death, there was, in fact, life there – life I did not expect and perhaps didn’t at first fully trust, but which turned out to be just the life God had in mind for me. 

It’s exciting, and terrifying. Just like the women, it fills us both “with fear and great joy.” And so what does the angel say to them? “Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid, for I know that you have come here expecting to find death, an ending, the loss of hope. But that is not what you will find here. Here, in this in-between place of uncertainty, as the dawn is breaking, you will find that Jesus has been raised, as he said. You will find that death didn’t win. You will find the power of God. Come and see for yourself! And then, go and tell others about it!”

I really appreciate that the angel tells the women, “Do not be afraid.” Because that place is scary. There is real fear there. I don’t hear the angel’s imperative as a dismissal of that fear, so much as an acknowledgement of it. This is a situation that causes fear, because the unknown is fearful. The guards were so afraid they fell over like dead men! 

And, at the same time, we need not let that fear overcome us, like those guards, because this is where God has chosen, and has always chosen, to show up. Going to meet us in this place of liminality, of uncertainty, of despair and fear, is what Jesus does – just as he did when he was born into poverty and violence in Bethlehem, just as he did when he healed the blind and the lepers, just as he did when he forgave notorious sinners and ate with them, just as he did when he welcomed the stranger and the outcast. God is always with us in this place, and is doing a new thing – and though it is fearful, we need not be afraid, because God shows up with the promise that sin and death and the powers of this world no longer has the ultimate power. God does.

And that is why the women are able to leave that encounter “with fear and great joy.” Fear, because new things are still terrifying. But also joy – and not just joy, but great joy – because they know that God will not leave them to fend for themselves in that fear. God meets them there.

Easter Sunday and frankly every Sunday is a profound experience of the liminal place of the leading tone, pointing us already toward the resolution, and not-yet there. We celebrate that “already” today with brass and singing and flowers, with telling each other that Christ IS risen indeed, that the promise of new life is already ours, that death does not and cannot win the day, and it is all so joyful… And, when we leave this joyful celebration, there will still be a war in Iran and around the world, people will still be diagnosed with cancer, marital strife will still exist, people will still not know where their next meal is coming from. Yet even in the midst of all that, we will see glimpses of the already, the new life Christ makes possible for us here, today. We’ll see it in the way people love one another, and show up for one another, and stand up for the well-being of their neighbors. We’ll see it in the way people make meaningful connections, and encourage and provide for one another. We’ll see it in belly laughs and small acts of kindness. We’ll see it in the way God takes our Most Awful, and uses it to show us and bring about something new and good, in a million small and large ways. 

And because of that “already,” we can face our current reality. Because we know that just like the angel did on that first Easter morning, God will meet us there in the tenuous in-between, will meet us there every time, and will not let sin and death have the final word. 

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! 

Let us pray… God of new life, we so often find ourselves in the in-between place of the dawning day. Meet us here, and give us confidence that with you, even when it is dark, we are always moving toward the brightness of a new day. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Lord, I want to be more loving (Maundy Thursday, 2026)

Maundy Thursday Sermon
April 2, 2026
John 13

Lord, I want to be a Christian, in my heart, in my heart.

Lord, I want to be a Christian, in my heart.

Anyone else sing this spiritual as a kid? It’s so simple, so earnest, and cuts straight to the point. The next verse says, “Lord, I want to be more loving, in my heart…” and the final verse asserts, “Lord, I want to be like Jesus, in my heart.”

That is really, or at least ought to be, the deepest desire of any Christian: to be like Jesus. To be more loving. It is so central to being a disciple, a follower of Christ, that Jesus makes an explicit point of it, on this, his last night with his disciples. “I give you a new commandment,” he says, “that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, so you should love one another. By this, everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Three times! It doesn’t get much clearer than that! If you are to call yourself a Christian, a key part of that is to love one another.

So… how do we think Christians as a whole are doing at that, as individuals and in the public sphere?

I listened to an interview this week with Bishop Michael Curry. He became somewhat famous when he was asked to preach at the royal wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle in 2018. His sermon at the wedding, about the love of Christ, went viral. In the interview I heard, he said that for a couple years afterward, strangers in airports or the grocery store would stop him and tell him, “I didn’t know Christianity was all about love.”

Let that sink in. Christianity is the largest religion in the world, and one of its central teachings is to love your neighbor as yourself… and people watching from the outside had no idea this was a part of it. It begs the question: why didn’t they know that? Where have Christians fallen so short that people don’t know the centrality of love in our practice of faith?

We could point to any number of factors, but one of them is certainly that the quiet ways so many of us do love one another is not what the world sees. The Christianity that is loudest – that gets the most play in the media, that is espoused by the most vocal figures – is not particularly loving or Christlike. This so-called Christianity prays for “violence against those who deserve no mercy,” and for God to “pour out his wrath” on our enemies. It teaches that people shouldn’t be who God made them to be, that who they are is sinful. It says that some people are inherently worth less than other people, based on the color of their skin, their country of origin, their self-understanding, or their particular woundedness that may have resulted in bad choices and mistakes. 

And all this in the name of the one who taught, “blessed are the merciful,” who spent his ministry reaching out to outcasts, and welcoming and forgiving notorious sinners and breaking bread with them. This in the name of the one who told his disciples, as he was being arrested, to put down their swords, who washed the feet of his betrayer, who gave himself for the people who would desert and deny him. I hardly think Jesus would sign off on the version of Christianity that is most publicly prominent today. It’s no wonder people didn’t know love is a part of Christian faith. Because that version of Christianity sure does not look like love. It does not look like Jesus. 

But let us not point the finger without also doing some self-reflection. Though I don’t typically call God’s wrath upon an entire people, or teach that anyone is worth less than I am because they are different, there are still plenty of ways I fall short, and that we all do, of loving one another. We hold grudges, we think uncharitable thoughts, we withhold forgiveness, we hold onto more resources than we share. We all fall short of the radical love to which Jesus calls us. And if Jesus is asking us to love others as he has loved us, most of us have a long way to go before we get close to his style of self-giving love.

Lord, I want to be more loving, in-a my heart, in-a my heart! Lord, I want to be like Jesus, in-a my heart.

So, how do we do that? 

Of course, reading about the actual words and deeds of Jesus throughout the Gospels is a pretty important start – all those stories we hear and preach in worship throughout the year. But we can also learn a lot about what it means to “be a Christian,” “to be more loving,” to “follow Jesus” by looking at our Gospel reading for tonight. 

The story begins in the same way we always begin worship: by gathering. This is not merely a practical detail we can just skip over. It is significant that Jesus joins in fellowship with his community on what he knows will be a difficult night, not only for him, but for them. After the foot-washing, Jesus will tell them he is leaving them, and they can’t come with him, and you can sure that news left them feeling sorrowful, afraid, possibly angry, abandoned, uncertain. And so he calls them together, to lean on and support one another. 

This is one of the most important ways we love one another: by showing up. By sharing the load, even if it doesn’t affect us personally. I’m sure we all have stories about times when our community showed up for us, and what a difference it made. I think of when I was undergoing cancer surgery, and members of my congregation gathered in the hospital lobby to pray for me while I went under. It gave me courage for what lay ahead. That’s Christian love.

It is also significant to note that Jesus didn’t only invite the “good guys” – Judas is invited as well. For Judas to be compelled to do what he was about to do, he was surely troubled. And so, Jesus includes him in this opportunity to gather in the name of love and care for one another. And Jesus washes his feet, too. So that’s one way to love like Jesus: showing up with and for one another. 

The next thing is apparent more in how John tells the story than in the action of the story itself, and that is that loving one another requires time and intimacy. Here’s where I see this: it is in the deliberateness with which Jesus gets up, takes off his outer robe, ties a towel around himself, pours water… the way each step is narrated slows down the action, and shows the time, attention, and intention it takes to love someone genuinely. And further, each step also reflects a certain intimacy: Jesus is physically removing a layer in preparation for his epically loving act of washing their feet. Because love does require of us to let down our guard a bit, and that exposure and intimacy may make us a bit uncomfortable at times. 

In another interview I heard this week, this one with Anne Lamott and Kate Bowler, Lamott says, “There’s the illusion that the armor is gonna protect you, whereas the armor actually keeps you from the direct sense of the Holy Spirit and the goodness and the love that abound.” In other words, we are inclined to stay protected, let no one see us, and let no one in. We do that by racing through life, not paying close attention, getting distracted by our many important things. But when we do that, and keep up our protective armor, what we really keep out is not danger, but as she says, “the goodness and love that abound.” Jesus shows us a different way: that intentional time and intimacy creates a space where love can exist and grow. 

Finally, Jesus’ shows us in this event that a little bit of love goes a long way. We see this in this interaction with Peter, who first rejects Jesus’ love by saying he doesn’t need it, and then swings the other way to say, “Then wash everything!” And Jesus says, “No, just the feet is enough.” I always love this interaction, which feels so on point for impetuous, eager-to-please Peter. But what I see in it this year is that Jesus focuses the act on one thing, not everything. When we throw around words to describe Jesus’ love like “self-giving” and “self-sacrificial,” and then say, “And we should love like that because Jesus said to,” it feels terribly overwhelming! We go into all-or-nothing mode, like Peter: “Wash nothing, or wash everything!” Love with everything you’ve got, or just give up. Give your whole life to this cause, or why bother? 

But Jesus says here, “Washing the feet is enough.” That small act of love is not only enough, it is everything. The people I mentioned who prayed for me in the hospital did not cure my cancer, but them being there felt like everything to me. My husband making me a cup of tea in the morning isn’t a full breakfast, but it feels like everything, because I know the love that is behind it. If I use some of my disposable income to buy food for someone today, it is only one meal, but to that person, it is still love, and that is everything. Whatever love we can give: it is enough. Whatever love we give, if it is done in the name of Jesus, it is showing the world the love of Christ, and that we are loving one another just as Christ loved us.

There is always room to be more loving, to become more like Jesus. There is always an opportunity to love more loudly and more broadly, so that the world would see and know the love of Christ, and know that this is a part of our faith. And some days we will do it. And some days, we will fail, sometimes epically. But Christ did not tell his disciples on that night to love one another perfectly. He told them to love – in whatever way they can, in all the places they can, and all the times they can, to whomever they can, for as long as they can. And so we shall, knowing and trusting that where we fall short, Jesus takes it the rest of the way. And that is everything!

Let us pray… Lord, we want to be more loving. Lord, we want to be like Jesus. Lord, we want to love one another, as you have loved us. Show us how. And help us to trust that you and your perfect love will never let us down. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Hungering for Life (March 22, 2026)

Lent 5A
March 22, 2026
Ezekiel 37; John 11

INTRODUCTION

On this 5th Sunday in Lent, the last Sunday before Palm Sunday and the rest of Holy Week, we get a little sneak peek at what God is all about: namely, bringing life out of death. Ezekiel gives us the Valley of Dry Bones, in which the prophet speaks to a nation in exile, cut off from everything important to them. To the dry, desolate bones, God sends life and breath, bringing life to what was utterly hopeless. The Gospel will echo this, with the raising of Lazarus. In John’s Gospel, this is the precipitating event that leads to Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion, so it’s especially appropriate for today, as we prepare for Holy Week next week. 

Both of these rich stories contain the central promise of our faith – that God will bring life out of death – which made it easy to identify today’s spiritual hunger: a hunger for life. As you listen, consider what makes you feel full of life, and what threatens to (or succeeds at) draining the life from you. How does the Word speak to your hunger today? Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. 

A friend of mine wrote me an email this week that started, “I hope you are sur-thriving Lent!” It made me chuckle. Lent is a notoriously draining season for clergy and other church employees and volunteers, and I loved her turn of phrase – because ideally, we are not simply surviving this holy season, or any season of life, but thriving through it. Living life in as full a way as possible. 

Today’s texts really confront us with the question of what that means – not only to survive, but to thrive. The spiritual hunger that immediately came to mind when I read these texts was, a hunger for life. And I don’t just mean physiological life – beating heart, functioning brain, etc. I mean, we hunger to live life in its fullness. In the chapter immediately preceding what we heard today, Jesus declares, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” That’s what we want: to have life abundantly. 

But how do we do that?

I suppose the first question we must answer is, what does that even mean, to have life abundantly – not only in eternity, but right now? What does it feel like to thrive, to have life? Some feelings that come to my mind are… it feels like contentment, gratitude, lightness, joy, and freedom. When I am only surviving, things feel heavy, but when I am thriving, I feel free, and like there is space for laughter and joy. Does that sound like life to you? 

Ok, so then what keeps us from that feeling? What keeps us hungry for life? My guess is this question is easier to answer, because there are so many realities that threaten to drain us of life: worry and fear about The World or about our world; difficult situations over which we have no control, regrets over past mistakes, the never-ending demands put on us, unmet expectations. 

Boy, can you feel the life draining out of you just listening to that list? I can.

This is all well-captured by a line from the Ezekiel reading: “our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” 

Our bones are dried up – we are tired, spent, exhausted. 

Our hope is lost – things didn’t go as we expected, we have nothing left. 

We are cut off completely – we are lonely, we have no allies, we have no community to call upon for support. 

Yep, that all sounds like the opposite of life, all right. Where will we find a spiritual food that will satisfy this hunger?

The first place to look is where we are already dwelling: in the Word of God itself. In John’s Gospel, Jesus himself is identified as the Word. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” John says in chapter 1. Though we no longer have Jesus’ bodily presence among us, we still have the holy scriptures, which point us to Christ, and illuminate Christ among us. Now I get that scripture can be hard to read sometimes – the language doesn’t always feel natural, we don’t understand the context or numerous references to historical events or people. It’s not as accessible as, say, a novel. It takes some time. But cooking a meal also takes time. Digesting dinner takes time. There is a wonderful prayer in the Book of Common Prayer that begins, “Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them.” I love that – the idea that scripture must be inwardly digested, just like a meal. In this way, the Word truly does feed our hunger – for life, or for whatever our particular need.

To that end, let’s see how the Word meal we heard today, in particular the story of the raising of Lazarus, answers our cry of despair, and feeds our hunger.

First, we see how Jesus allows our lament to be heard, and he joins in it. One thing I love about this story is that it allows grief to be grief. We see the anger and anguish in Mary’s words – “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!” Who among us has not uttered something similar. “God, you could have fixed this, so why didn’t you?” We see the desperate tears and questions of all those present. And Jesus himself famously begins to weep with them. Twice John tells us Jesus is “greatly disturbed.” It is the definition of compassion – Jesus “suffers-with” them, feeling their feelings, being present with them in it. And when we utter our own laments – about how unfair it all is, how exhausting, how terrifying – we can trust that Jesus suffers there with us, too, that he, too, is “greatly disturbed in spirit” right along with us. We are not alone in the anguish that would threaten to drain us of life. And the knowledge of that truth feeds our hunger for life.

The next course of this Word meal directs us to Lazarus, the man stuck physically in that place of death, the tomb. Toward the end of the story, there is a long interaction about all the reasons raising Lazarus is not a good idea. There is a stone in the way. Already there is a stench. I find this so interesting – you’d think people would jump at the opportunity to allow Lazarus to step out and back into the land of the living, but there is resistance, and this is worth noting. Because we say we want life, but life often means letting go of some of the things, the bindings, the stones, that would hold us back in that place of death. 

It begs the question: what is it that keeps you in the tomb? Think of some of those things I mentioned before that drain us of life: difficult situations over which we have no control, regrets over past mistakes, the never-ending demands on us, unmet expectations. We desperately want those things not to plague us, yet we continue to hold onto them. We withhold the forgiveness that would free us from a past wrong – whether that forgiveness would be for someone else or for ourselves. We fixate on people or situations over which we have no control – or worse, we think we do have control and try futilely to change someone else. We blame others for our own problems, refusing to do our own work because it is, after all, someone else’s fault. We stew over a reality that is different from our expectation. 

All these things keep us in the grave, occupying our minds and attention so we cannot see the life outside the tomb. And so, Jesus bellows over the noise of it all, “Come out!” He knows it won’t be easy, and that the journey from death to life might really stink. Lord, if anyone knows that it is Jesus, who made the journey himself, so that it would be possible for us to make it! But life cannot come without going through the stink – facing the truth, reckoning with our reality, doing the work and making hard decisions, shedding all those things that hold us bound: the fear, the despair, the frustration, the resentment, all of it. 

Jesus is calling us to face the fear of it, and promising us that not only will he be there alongside us, but so will the community of the faithful. Jesus calls upon them, too – first to “take away the stone,” and then, to “unbind him and let him go.” They don’t do the work for Lazarus – he still has to walk out of the tomb himself – but they accompany and assist him in the journey. Because, you see, we are not in this alone. Jesus knows the journey intimately, and Jesus calls upon others to help us shed all that would hold us in that place of death. We support each other in this, committing to be the body of Christ for each other. By Christ’s command and power, let us feed one another, that we might all have life, and have it abundantly. 

Let us pray… Lord of the living, you call us to come out – out of the tomb, out of the ways that bring death – and come into your love, your glory, your everlasting life. Grant us the courage to face the stink, and step out into the light. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Hungering for connection and belonging (March 8, 2026)

Lent 3A
March 8, 2026
John 3:3-42

INTRODUCTION

We have been talking this Lent about hunger, but today’s readings are all about thirst. We start with the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, and they are thirsty. They beg Moses for something to drink, remembering the good ol’ days of slavery in Egypt when they had plenty to drink. Remarkably, by God’s power, Moses will bring forth water from a rock and everyone will get plenty to drink.

The Gospel also begins with thirst – this time, it is Jesus who thirsts in body, and an unnamed woman at a well who thirsts in spirit. Jesus’ talk of “a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” brings to mind that water gushing from a rock in the wilderness – but this water of which Jesus speaks is eternally quenching. 

A few things to notice about this encounter with the woman at the well. First, remember that Samaria is not a place Jews would voluntarily go because they hated Samaritans. Yet John tells us they “had to” go through Samaria – this is a theological need, not a geographical one – he’s showing the disciples what belief in him implies. Second, this story comes right after Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus that we heard last week, and that’s by design. This woman is everything Nicodemus is not: he is a named, educated, important man; she is a nameless, uneducated, nobody woman. He’s a respected Pharisee; she’s a despised Samaritan. Nicodemus encounters Jesus by night; the woman at high noon. All of these details matter – and spoiler, it is the woman, not Nicodemus who comes out the rockstar of faith! (By the way, happy International Women’s Day!)

As you listen, notice where you yourself are thirsting today: where in your spirit are you craving a drink of living water? The spiritual hunger I’ll be addressing in my sermon today is a hunger (or maybe, a thirst!) for connection and belonging. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Scholars have troubled over this woman’s story for generations. What is her deal? Why is she coming to the well by herself at the hottest part of the day? Why has she had five husbands? Did these guys all divorce her? Why? Could it be because she was baren? Or did they die? And who is this current guy she is living with? 

I, too, am so curious about her story. As I try to imagine it, my heart only breaks for her. If her previous husbands divorced her (which could be done for any reason from burning her husband’s morning toast to being unable to bear children), then she is seen as damaged goods by her community. If she can’t keep a husband, or can’t have children in a society that sees this as women’s primary role, then she is shrouded in shame. If her husbands have died, then she is living with the grief of that, not to mention the fear that she is somehow cursed, and has no one to care for her. It’s no wonder she comes to the well when no one else will be there – she is riddled with shame, grief, pain, fear, and who knows what else. Imagine that feeling of disconnection from her community. She must be hungering to belong, hungering for connection. 

That hunger for belonging and connection is not unfamiliar to us. Already in our Lenten devotional we have read two stories from current St. Paul’s members who moved to Rochester and felt at first a sense of disconnection and grief, as they searched for a new place to belong. I have felt that hunger myself at various times and for various reasons, and I’m sure you have as well. Even in our most intimate relationships – in marriage, with kids or parents – we sometimes crave connection and belonging.

So, how does Jesus meet this woman in her hunger, and how can this story help us to be fed as well?

First is exactly what I just said: he meets her there. Jesus did not have to go through Samaria, but he chose to. He approached her at the well and asked for a drink, though John makes a point to say that this was not customary behavior for a Jewish man with a Samaritan woman. So this is significant: Jesus goes to and meets the woman exactly where and how she is.

Second, he truly sees her, the real her. He leaves space for her and her questions and her complicated past, he sees her exactly where and how she is, without asking her to be anything other than she is. In fact, he sees the parts of her that cause her the most pain –her doomed marriages, her current and potentially scandalous living situation, the things that bring her the most shame. He sees all of that, and stays with her. Engages with her in a lengthy dialogue. This clearly has extraordinary impact on the woman, because when she goes to witness, to testify to the town about this amazing man, that is what she says: “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” He saw me, my darkest corners, the things I would want to keep hidden, the things that bring me shame – and he didn’t leave me alone in them. He can’t be the Messiah… can he?

I have been enjoying reading the book, Theo of Golden. Anyone read it? I’m about halfway through, and it’s lovely. The premise is that an elderly man, Theo, moves to the southern town of Golden. He sees some beautiful portraits of some townspeople, drawn by a local artist, displayed in a coffee shop. He is touched by how well they capture each person, and he resolves to buy them all, and gift them to their subjects. He invites these strangers, one by one, with a letter to meet him at a certain bench. They are understandably skeptical at first, but soon enough, Theo has these individuals talking, telling him about their lives, opening up in ways they never have before. He truly sees them, and this forges life-changing connections, not only between him and these townspeople, but between these people and the other people in their lives. They find both emotional and physical healing from that connection Theo makes possible, simply by allowing them to be seen. That’s what happens when we are seen. (I don’t think it is an accident, by the way, that the author, who has said his Christian faith influences his writing, named this charming protagonist Theo, a name that means, “God”!)

One more thing Jesus does that feeds this woman’s hunger for belonging is he creates a space of mutuality. He comes with a need – a physical thirst – that he asks her to meet, before he offers to meet her spiritual need. She’s got the bucket and the well; he’s got the Living Water. 

This is not unlike our Lutheran understanding of mission, which assumes that everyone has something to give. When we serve, we don’t come in with an agenda, ready to impart our gifts on someone in need. We come with an intention to walk with one another, to both give and receive. We are not here to save someone else, but rather, we belong to one another, and need one another. Jesus models that here. Even he, the Savior of the world, makes space for the one seeking belonging and connection to contribute what she has to give.

So, what difference does all that make for us today, for those of us who do still hunger for belonging and connection?

First, it is knowing that just as Jesus met the woman where she was, in all her shame and grief and harbored secrets – Jesus meets us where we are. He knows everything we have ever done, and loves and values us still. More than that, he makes space in his love for our pain to exist, without judgment. Let me say this again, because it is so important: God sees you and meets you exactly where and how you are, making space for your pain, and loves you in that place, just as you are. And by that connection, that relationship, he makes healing possible. He makes transformation possible.

Second, when we have experienced that belonging, and we are, like the woman, transformed by it, we are then equipped to offer and create that life-changing space of belonging and connection for someone else. Like Jesus, we can go to the people in pain, and listen. Like Theo of Golden, we can make space for stories to be shared. By making space and bearing witness to one another’s stories, full of pain and questions and curiosity, life-changing connections are forged. And from there, belonging is created. Souls and longings are fed. Spiritual thirst is quenched, and we become a part of God’s work of quenching the thirst of a world in need of transformation.

Let us pray… God of living water, we hunger and thirst to belong, to connect with you and with one another. Meet us where we are, so that we would be sustained by the space your love creates for us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Hungering for certainty and knowledge (March 1, 2026)

Lent 2A
March 1, 2026
John 3:1-17

INTRODUCTION

Today’s texts are all about faith. In Abraham’s case, he trusts a God who is basically a stranger to him and his kinsfolk, doing something that likely seemed ridiculous to everyone he cared about simply because this stranger God told him to. In John, we will hear the story of Nicodemus, a devout teacher of the law, who comes to Jesus by night with his questions about faith. This text will include the most famous thumbnail articulation of the Christian faith: John 3:16. Psalm 121 and Romans 5 will offer us commentary especially on Abraham’s remarkable faith, but on the practice of faith in general.

Faith. It’s something we all claim to have, or at least try to have, though some days may be better than others on that front. And yet, it is also something notoriously difficult to understand or describe. As a pastor, I hear a lot about people’s joys and their struggles with faith, as you can imagine, and most of the time, people have more questions than answers about their faith. If this sounds familiar, then today’s readings are for you! Whether you are a lifetime believer and knowledgeable practitioner of faith, like Nicodemus, or someone very new to encountering God, like Abraham, there is something here for you today. 

During this Lenten season, we are doing a preaching series on spiritual hungers. Today’s hunger, in the midst of all this talk of faith, is, a hunger for certainty and knowledge. Let’s listen and be fed.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. 

“St. Augustine is walking along the beach when he sees a little boy digging a hole in the sand and running back and forth from the ocean to fill the hole with water. Curious, Augustine asks the boy, ‘What are you doing?’ The little boy replies, ‘I’m putting the ocean in this hole.’ Augustine says, ‘Little boy, you can’t do that. The ocean is too big to put in that little hole.’ The boy, who is really an angel, responds, ‘And so, Augustine, is your mind too small to contain the vastness of God.’”

That’s how I feel sometimes when I read John’s Gospel, and today’s story is no exception. How desperately we want real, concrete, understandable answers, just like Nicodemus! “How can these things be??” we ask. We want to understand God and God’s ways. We have a hunger for certainty and knowledge about the questions of faith – like, why do bad things happen to good people, why do good things happen to bad people, why is there violence and war, who is going to heaven and who isn’t, and what is the purpose of even being here? All good questions – to which only God knows the answers. And the smallness of our minds compared to the vastness of God’s makes it impossible for us to know or understand. And so, we feel we are left hungry for more certainty, more knowledge. 

Today’s story about Jesus and Nicodemus shows us just how much we don’t, and can’t, understand or know. There is so much going on here, and much of it is so cryptic. And yet in the midst of it all is probably the most famous verse in the Bible, a word of immense love, John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that all who believe in him would not perish but have eternal life.” Martin Luther call it “the Gospel in a nutshell,” and it’s true – it says succinctly the whole purpose of this faith: God loves us so much God didn’t want us to die, but to live, forever in God’s care. 

It’s good news! And yet this verse of love – as well as several other verses in this passage – have been used over the years not to include people in God’s embrace, but to exclude them. The “born again” imagery comes to mind: it has been used by evangelicals to say that unless you have had a believer’s baptism – one in which the one being baptized is able to confess their own faith, as opposed to infant baptism – then it doesn’t count. You’re not a real Christian. This, even though the verse right after John 3:16 clarifies that Jesus didn’t “come into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world would be saved through him.” Why has such a word of love been turned into such a word of judgment? Why do humans think we know who is saved and who is not?

So, what do we do with all this? We come back to those tough questions of faith – who is saved, why do things happen as they do – and the fact that we simply cannot know. “It’s a mystery,” as my pastor dad always says when we can’t know the answer to a faith question. Our minds are the small hole in the sand, and we are that little boy, trying to fit the ocean in there. The knowledge and certainty we crave simply cannot fit.

But that doesn’t have to stop us from digging into God’s word and trying to understand. So, for those hungry for knowledge today, let’s do a quick word study, focused on the word translated as, “world.” The Greek word John uses here is kosmos, and throughout John’s Gospel, this word refers to “that which is hostile to God.” So we could translate John 3:16-17 this way: “God so loved the God-hating world, that he gave his only Son…” and, “God did not send the Son to the world that despises God to condemn it, but instead so that the world that rejects God might still be saved through him.” In other words, the world hated and rejected God, and God lovingly sent God’s Son to save it anyway. It is hard for our small-hole-in-the-sand minds to grasp such audacious, unearned, and unexpected love as that! It truly is a mystery! 

Now, does knowing that little bit more satisfy your hunger for knowledge? Or make it grow? Or maybe your craving for knowledge is now causing you to think, “Well, then what’s the point? Why believe if just anyone can get into heaven, even those who hate God?” To that, I have two answers. 

The first one is: my mind is just as much a small hole in the sand as yours is. Who knows if anything I just said is even true. I mean, I hope it is, I think it is, but I don’t know! This is all way beyond me. It was way beyond Nicodemus, a teacher of the law. It is way beyond anyone who isn’t God, so don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. God and God’s ways cannot be understood. That is where faith and trust come into play – the sort of faith we see in Abraham and that we see beautifully articulated in the Psalm. We cannot know, but only trust. 

The other thing is that while we don’t know for certain all the practical details, what we do know is that it is up to God, and not us. And if God welcomes someone into heaven whom I wouldn’t have let in if it were up to me, that doesn’t in any way diminish my own experience of heaven. (Plus, do I really want a God who would make the same flawed choices I would make?? I think not!) So there are some things that are worth thinking about, sure, but are not worth worrying about – all we can do is the best we can, living into this life in the way Jesus teaches us how, by loving God and neighbor with all that we are and all that we have.

I said I had two answers to the question, “What’s the point of believing in Jesus?” My second answer is a testimony. There are lots of things I don’t know for certain, and I do often hunger for more knowledge and certainty. The sheer number of books on my shelf are proof of that! But I do know, or trust, some things; and if your question is, “What’s the point of faith?” then let me tell you at least what is true for me. Here is what I think is the point, and why I believe in Jesus Christ: 

I believe in Christ because that faith makes my life better. My faith makes me feel full. When the world or my world is full of fear or despair, my faith gives me hope. It gives me strength when I am weak. As much as I cannot and will not ever understand about God, my faith still helps me to make sense of the joys and the challenges of this life. 

I believe in Jesus because that relationship makes me want to be better. It moves me every day toward living more and more authentically into life as a baptized child of God, a life of looking to the needs of others, a life of self-sacrificial love, a life of speaking out for the needs of the oppressed and vulnerable. It gives me purpose, and moves me to do things like, strive and work toward a world where no one is hungry, where peace prevails, and to be the best version of myself. 

I believe in Jesus because the story of death and life that God tells through Christ is one that I have seen to be true in my own life. It is a story that, because I know it is true, I am compelled to search for it. I am moved always to search for life, even in the darkest of deaths. 

And this keeps my head above water, and frankly makes my life worth living. It gets me up in the morning and puts me down at night. And I tell other people about this, not because I want them to go to heaven (though I do!), but because I want them to experience the life right now that I experience by having a relationship with Christ. I want other people to feel the fullness and love that I experience by my belief in Jesus. For me, that’s the point of faith.

We cannot know about things to come. Our minds are small holes in the sand, and we can only fit so much ocean into them. What we can know is this: that God loves us. God loves us so much, that God sent His only Son so that we could have a glimpse of that love, a glimpse of what is yet to come. God loves us so much that God endured the same pain and suffering we do, so we would know we are not alone in it. God loves us enough to provide us a Way into a new life of fullness and love, so that, though we may still hunger, we are also eternally nourished and sustained. 

That’s the point.

Let us pray… God of all knowledge, when we hunger for certainty, make us satisfied with not knowing any more beyond that you love us, and that because of that love, you would do anything for us – and did. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Hungry for fulfillment and purpose (Feb. 22, 2026)

Lent 1A
February 22, 2026
Matthew 4:1-11

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to Lent! On this first Sunday in Lent, the lectionary focuses on temptation. First, we will hear the story of the very first temptation, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Of course we know how that went – they give into the crafty serpent and eat the forbidden fruit, and it is all downhill from there.

But then in the Gospel, we hear another temptation story, and this one has a happier ending: the story of Jesus being tempted by the devil in the desert. Matthew’s telling of this is especially colorful – we get to hear the specific ways that the devil tempts Jesus, and how sneakily he tries to do it. We also see that, where Adam and Eve fail in maintaining trust in God, Jesus overcomes the devil at every turn. Even though the devil makes a very compelling case by drawing from scripture, Jesus is steadfast in his trust in and reliance on God. 

Now that’s all well and good… but still, even though we know Jesus defeated the power of sin, the temptation to stray like Adam and Eve is very real to us, even on a daily basis. We know this, and God knows this. That’s why I appreciate that we always get to hear this story of Jesus’ temptation on this first Sunday of Lent. 

One more thing: this Lent, our particular focus will be on hunger. Each week, we will learn something about hunger, both from local agencies during worship, and from a more theological approach after worship. To accompany this learning, Deacon Emily and I have put together a sermon series on spiritual hungers. So as you listen, today and each week, consider what spiritual hunger is being titillated for you by these texts. How do they reveal that for which your spirit hungers? Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. 

I have, for the past couple of years, been working on coming to terms with the reality that I am no longer a “young adult;” I am middle-aged. That is, at 42 years old, I am likely about halfway through my life. And so, I have started thinking about, you know, middle-aged things. The life goals I had as a younger person have all been met: I have a family with two kids I adore, a job that both challenges and feeds me, extended family nearby, friends I enjoy. But – I’ve still got, God willing, at least half of my life ahead of me. So that question starts to creep into my consciousness: is this all there is? What is left for me to strive for that I don’t already have?

This is the sweet spot advertising companies look for: that possibility that people feel a sort of longing, a craving to be fulfilled by something more. So they work to convince you that you can and will feel fulfilled… if only you buy this product! If you start this hobby, go on that vacation, buy this car or that outfit – this can be the key to you finally finding your purpose! This is how you feed your spiritual hunger. 

        It’s a pretty smart approach, really. Because people are hungry for fulfillment, for meaning, for a purpose. We want to be fulfilled in our jobs, in our family life, among our friends. The trouble is, this fulfillment can be difficult to come by, and we search for it among anything we can find, especially if it is close at hand – and, unfortunately, we don’t always search in the places that will actually provide what we are searching for.

         And this is where we run into the problem of temptation – the very problem Jesus has in our Gospel reading today. The detail that jumps out at me in this text is that, “Jesus was famished.” Famished, exhausted, weak, susceptible, vulnerable. Just exactly the state the devil wants him in when he begins his tempting ways. And the first temptation is the most carnal of all – he suggests that the fasting Jesus feed himself! Wow, what I wouldn’t give to be fed after 40 days without food. And the next two aren’t any easier: Jesus turns down authority over all the kingdoms of the world, and a chance to prove himself as the Son of God. I mean, talk about a purpose! Yet all of this, he turns down.

Of course we are not tempted by such dramatic things as these… or are we? 

We, too, hunger: for love, companionship, identity, belonging, purpose. We crave power: over the various circumstances in the world and in our lives that aren’t going the way we would have liked or chosen. And, we long for a chance to prove ourselves to the world: as people who matter. 

But the difference is that where Jesus knows exactly how those needs can be fulfilled – that is, by God alone – we, on the other hand, search for anything earthly that might be close at hand to fill them for us, whether that is the latest technology or trend, or dozens of clever friends, or brilliant and successful children. And yes, sometimes we seek it through more altruistic means – volunteer work, for example, and deepening relationships with others – but still, we often lean on ourselves and our own devices, to feed that hunger for purpose and fulfillment.

         Theologians have reflected in many and various ways on this concept of seeking to be filled by
earthly things. Blaise Pascal, a 17th century French philosopher, talked about a sort of God-shaped hole that lies within us. He writes, “This [hole] we try in vain to fill with everything around us… [But] this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words, by God alone.” One contemporary theologian, Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor, compares this desperate longing we have to fill that hole, with a baby’s pacifier. She writes, “Whenever we start feeling too empty inside, we stick our pacifiers into our mouths and suck for all we are worth. They do not nourish us, but at least they plug the hole.” 

         What is particularly destructive is what we look for to be our un-nourishing “pacifiers.” These things can become another word with which we are more familiar: self-medicating, or, addictions. In our desperate attempts to fill the hole, we become tempted by whatever makes us feel better in the moment, be it a substance, exercise, work, or shopping. And if it works once, we learn to rely on it to do the job every time – even as we know that these are only quick fixes, and not what will sustain us in the long run.

         Another way we seek to fill that hole, I think, is with stuff. Remember what I was saying earlier about advertising strategies? If ads can convince us that our lives are somehow lacking because we do not have this product, or put more positively, that our lives will be more whole and true if we do have this product, then it is no wonder that we go out and buy it. How tempting it then becomes to fill our God-shaped holes with stuff, and then to let our stuff (the car we drive, the clothes we wear, the location of our house, our décor) define who we are. 

These things are not all inherently bad. But do any of them actually fill our God-shaped holes? Do they truly serve to provide us with purpose, with meaning, with the sense of fulfillment we so crave? Maybe sometimes, on some level. But like a nutrient-poor instant meal or vending machine chips, they will not make us feel full for long. Because these things do not nourish us, not down to our very souls. 

Jesus knew that, of course. Remarkably, though he could easily have engaged with any of the devil’s temptations and likely come out on top, his response to the devil instead is to quote the word of God, holy scripture, because that is something he knows he can trust, and something that is nourishing and sustaining. In other words, in his moment of being famished, Jesus lets God fill that hole, because indeed God is the only one who can. 

(I do think it is worth mentioning, as an aside, that the devil also uses scripture. The challenge with scripture, and the reason it is important not just to read it but to study it, is that you can prove almost anything you want with scripture if you’re motivated enough to do so. For example, both slave-holders and abolitionists used scripture to support their view. But the way the devil uses it is like that reality show, “Is it Cake?” where they make cake that looks like real items, like an old boot or something, and you don’t know until you cut into it whether it is really cake or actually just an old boot. The devil will give us an old boot, every time. It is through prayerful study of scripture that we learn to tell the difference – and I hope you will join us in that this Lent!)

So, where do we go from here? This whole sermon, I’ve been referring to a place in us that seems to be lacking, that is a hole, a place where we experience a spiritual hunger. What if instead of imagining that this hole is a place where we are lacking, we imagine that this hollowness within us is not something bad or wrong, but rather, is an uncluttered place in our soul into which God can enter and rule? If you feel loneliness, for example, don’t reach immediately for something to fill it – something earthly and fleeting. Instead, name the feeling, let yourself feel it, and then prayerfully imagine God entering into that emptiness. If you feel sadness: let yourself feel that hole, then let God come into it and nourish it. If you feel anxiety: notice that you feel anxious, then breathe deeply, letting the Spirit enter you just as it entered Jesus when he was led into the wilderness for a trying 40 days. And as you breathe out the air, let God remain in that place, fulfilling you and nourishing you in a way that nothing on earth ever can.

As you come forward to this table in a few minutes, hungry for fulfillment, remember these things. As you reach out your hands for bread, that holy food, ask for this sacrament to fulfill you. As you feel it going down your throat, know that God is going into that part of yourself that needs filling. And as you return to your seats, remember that Christ goes with you, fulfilling and nourishing you, wherever you go. That is God’s promise for you. 

Let us pray… Nourishing God, you satisfy the hungry heart. Satisfy us in whatever longing we have. Fill our God-shaped holes with the only thing that will give us lasting nourishment: your love, grace and mercy. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Ash Wednesday Sermon: It aches to be human.

Ash Wednesday
Feb. 18, 2026
Isaiah 58:1-12

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

It aches to be human.

I want to start this Ash Wednesday, this Lenten season, by simply acknowledging that fact. To be human is to ache; we come out of the womb crying and we don’t ever really stop. 

Certainly, we ache over things in the world, especially things over which we have little or no control. I have been learning about poverty in preparation for this season, and it aches to hear about the endless cycle of poverty and the sheer number of children affected, even in this, a country with such immense wealth. In Rochester, a whopping 40-50% of children live in poverty.

It aches to know that smart people have some really solid and proven ideas to fix poverty in America, and yet we choose not to do them. 

We also ache to watch the news, and again, to feel helpless as we watch people around the world and at home suffering horrific atrocities – natural disasters, corrupt governments, people hungry for power at any cost, even the cost of their own neighbors’ and citizens’ lives and well-being.

But this Ash Wednesday, the human ache I’m really thinking about is not just a result of something out there somewhere, but rather, the one we feel in our own soul. Sometimes it is circumstantial: a new diagnosis, a strained relationship with a spouse or child, the loss of independence, a struggle with self-understanding. But even those acute circumstances aside, we as humans often endure a persistent ache, a longing… even, a hunger. 

Lent, and Ash Wednesday in particular, is an invitation to be honest about our ache, whatever it may be. As we will hear in a moment before the imposition of ashes, it is also an invitation into certain disciplines, including self-examination, repentance, as well as fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. Those disciplines are designed, in part, to make us aware of and to respond to our spiritual restlessness. But on Ash Wednesday, it begins with a simple acknowledgement: that is aches to be human, and that includes all of us.

Why is that admission so difficult for us? I suppose it is because we hate to admit that we don’t have it all together. We don’t want to admit weakness, and we might not even know how to name what is off in our hearts. In our reading from Isaiah, the people think they are doing pretty well, fasting and worshiping God, and I’m sure it didn’t feel great to hear the prophet tell them, “That’s not what I’m looking! The fast that I choose is not just to talk the talk, but to walk the walk of freeing the oppressed and caring for the needy.” No one likes to be told they are doing it wrong. Similar in the Gospel, in which Jesus calls out the hypocrites who act all holy, but who are missing the point. Humans have never wanted to admit they are wrong, that they do not always know what is best!

Well, maybe except for David, who wrote today’s Psalm. “Indeed, you delight in truth deep within me,” he sings, “and would have me know wisdom deep within… Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me.” Yes, yes, this is what I want, too! I want to know truth and wisdom deep within, to know what is really going on with my heart. I want a right spirit within me! I want for the ache to go away – not just the ache of watching a broken world go about being broken, but the ache I feel deep in my soul, that feeling of being unsettled, unfinished. That feeling of desire. That feeling of longing. That feeling of… a spiritual hunger.

Yes, we would often like that ache, that hunger, to go away. But on this Ash Wednesday, I’m wondering whether making it disappear is really the point. If we didn’t ache, would we also lose our drive to turn toward God? What if that ache is there precisely to compel us to seek out our God, the only one who can truly satisfy? 

Father Ron Rolheiser says it this way: “I think [that ache we’re all born with] is the most basic thing inside of us. If you remember Descartes’ famous line, I think therefore I am – well, St. Augustine goes deeper. The deepest thing is, I desire, therefore I am… He says, You have made us for yourself, Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you. To me that’s the deepest truth of my life. And I think it’s the deepest truth in everybody’s lives—whether it’s recognized or not.” 

This Lent, we will be learning about and responding to physical hunger – in our community and in the world. But we will also be considering our various spiritual hungers, our human aches, in Sunday sermons throughout the season. We hunger for fulfillment and meaning, we hunger for security. We hunger for belonging and acceptance, for forgiveness and reconciliation. We hunger for truth. We hunger for life. 

But really, that all comes back to that Augustine quote: our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God. 

Ash Wednesday invites us into that truth. On this strange and honest day in the church year, we come to somber worship, and we are honest with ourselves and with God: that we hunger and ache in mind and spirit. That we do not have it all together. That we don’t always know what to do, or how to feed our deepest hunger. That we have not always loved God with all our heart and mind and soul and strength, and our neighbor as ourselves. We have judged falsely, and been negligent in prayer – and all the other things our confession in a moment will go through. And we ache. 

Acknowledging all that is a necessary first step. But we receive something else today that is just as necessary. After we confess, we come forward to receive ashes on our forehead, in the shape of a cross. The ashes remind us of our sin that draws us from God, and the reality that our time on earth is fleeting. We are dust, and we shall return to dust. But they are not smudged indiscriminately on our faces. They are traced with intention on top and in the shape of the cross traced on our foreheads at our baptism. In that way, they serve as promise: that God never leaves us alone in the ache. That God draws near to us in that place, even as the same ache drives us toward God. And that the death of Christ means life for us – a life that will, eventually, mean the end to all our aches and pains and sufferings, because we will be alive together forever with Christ. 

Baptism was the beginning of that journey to eternal life, and acknowledging the ache between here and there is how we continue it, knowing that each spiritual hunger pang we feel is a reminder to turn once again toward God. 

The ache of being human is not going away, this side of heaven. But neither is the promise, and certainly, neither is the grace. Because even as our souls seek God, God is always, always, seeking us.

Let us pray… God, draw near to our aching, restless hearts. And let each pang and desire and longing direct and drive us toward your presence, so that we might find our rest in you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.