Sermon: Called to come alongside (May 10, 2026)

Easter 6A
May 10, 2026
John 14:15-21

INTRODUCTION

In last week’s reading from Acts, the stoning of Stephen, I mentioned that St. Paul, then called Saul, was present, holding the coats of the people stoning Stephen. He’s come a long way since then: between that story and the one we will hear today, Saul has had a major conversion experience, and has gone from persecutor to promoter of the Church. He is traveling the known world, sharing the gospel and planting churches. Today we will find him before the Aereopagus, which is both a place and the name of the group, the council, that meets there. They are Greek, so they do not share Paul’s Jewish background, so Paul is instead trying to use their own poets and wisdom to convince them that Jesus is Lord. This was one of Paul’s exceptional skills, and he knew it: he could meet anyone exactly where they were, and bring them the gospel in ways they could understand.

Our Gospel reading takes us to the same place we were last week, Jesus’ last night with his disciples before his crucifixion. The sense of grief is increasing, and Jesus, now in the role of pastor and friend, knows it. So he speaks these comforting words to them, that they will not be left alone, that in his absence another “advocate,” as he calls it, will be with them. He is promising them the Holy Spirit, which we will see come upon them dramatically in a couple weeks on Pentecost like a wild rushing wind and tongues of fire. But this moment is more tender than dramatic, as Jesus speaks to their fears with great care and compassion.

Paul proclaims that we are God’s offspring. The Psalmist promises that God hears our prayers. 1st Peter assures us of God’s presence even when we suffer, and Jesus promises us we will not be left alone. As you listen, on this day when we celebrate those who care for us, hear in these texts the promise of God, our loving parent’s, enduring care for you. Let’s listen. 

[READ] 

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

We are now in the 6th Sunday of Easter, and every single week since Easter, I have either planned or officiated a funeral – four services so far, with another one in a few weeks. I really don’t mind doing funerals; in fact, I rather like them, because this is where the Church is at its best, proclaiming a word of hope and life to people with broken hearts who are hungry for such a word. 

The death of a loved one is of course one of the most profound experiences of loss we as humans endure. But loss in its various forms is something we endure, even on a daily basis. For example, many have the experience of losing an elderly parent to dementia, or losing your independence, or your passion for your job. Or losing a cherished relationship because of divorce, or someone moving away, or a breach of trust. Even loss that is necessary or ultimately leads to better things can be hard. For instance, marriage, or having children, are generally happy occasions, but they also lead to the loss of a previous way of life. We often say people fear change, but it is not so much change that people fear as it is the loss of something that is familiar to them. And in an ever-changing world, this happens all the time. 

Yet even though loss is a common experience to all people, we don’t always deal with it very well – either for ourselves, or with other people. We just want so badly to fix it and to make the pain go away. So, we gloss over our dis-ease with platitudes like, “It’ll be okay…” or, “She’s in heaven now…” or, “It’ll get easier.” Though well-intentioned, these easy fixes can sometimes do more harm than good, making us feel alone with our grief, no matter how big or small that grief may be. 

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus’ disciples are also dealing with a very real grief and sense of loss, and Jesus knows it and responds to it. Last week he told them, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” He’s told them he is going to prepare a place for them, and will bring them to himself. The disciples are beginning to grasp that all these things he’s been saying – they mean he is going to die. And that somehow in this he will be glorified, but they’re not really sure how. What they know for sure is that Jesus is leaving them – the man for whom they left everything, and on whom they have decided to stake their lives, is leaving them, all alone. Just imagine how they feel.

I would feel… scared, unsure of what happens next, about the future. I would feel angry that this apparently has to happen. I would feel lonely, knowing that this dear friend and teacher was leaving me with this bunch of betrayers and deniers. I would feel frantic, wanting to change the outcome if at all possible. Perhaps most of all, I would feel a deep longing – a longing for things not to have to change, a longing to hold onto this moment forever. 

Jesus seems to get that, because then he gives the disciples this wonderful promise: “I will not leave you orphaned.” Up until now, he has been their advocate, the one who, in the incarnation, came alongside them and literally walked with them. Now, he is leaving the world in body and does not want to leave them all alone, so he is sending another Advocate – the Spirit of truth. 

The Greek word translated here as “Advocate” is an interesting and dynamic one. The word is paracletos, literally translated, “one who comes alongside.” It is sometimes translated as “comforter,” “helper,” “companion,” “consoler,” or, “encourager.” All of this and more is what the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, does for us. The Advocate comforts, helps, accompanies, consoles, and encourages. This gift from Jesus is what keeps us from being orphaned and alone in this world. When I think of the times in my life when I have felt some of those feelings I imagined before that the disciples feel, I know what a comfort this gift is. Companionship, encouragement, consolation – these are exactly what my aching hearts longs for in these times. 

So this is really good news for those of us who are aching with the pain of loss, the fear of abandonment, the anxiety and longing of uncertainty. And we should dwell in that promise and assurance just as long as we need to in order to find healing and something closer to wholeness. 

And, at the same time, the Spirit’s coming alongside us does not stop with how this benefits us; there is also a call in there. Remember back to the second Sunday of Easter, we heard the story of how Jesus came to the disciples in the upper room, and breathed his Spirit into them. And then in a couple of weeks, we will hear the story of Pentecost, how the Spirit comes and rests upon the whole Church. And in baptism, the Holy Spirit comes to each individual, drawing us into the Body of Christ and empowering us to act as Christ to our neighbor. So this Spirit, this Advocate, does not only come to help us. The Spirit of comfort and encouragement, of consolation and help is also in each of us, each member of the Body of Christ. So when Jesus tells his disciples, and us by extension, that he will not leave us orphaned, that he is sending an Advocate, a helper for us – he is also telling us that we are to be that helper, that advocate, for one another. 

How does that look in our church and in the world? How do we encourage one another? How to comfort one another? How do we advocate for one another?  How do we face the various losses that we each experience and not offer mere platitudes and dismiss the feelings, but truly offer love and care and comfort in its wake? 

There are as many ways as there are people! We can live out our Spirit-given identity by being willing simply to listen to one another, acknowledging that the feelings are valid and real without dismissing or trying to fix anything. We do it by being willing to hold one another in prayer even if we can’t exactly understand another person’s story. We can do it by literally advocating – standing up for the rights and well-being of those who are vulnerable, speaking truth to power like so many prophets have done throughout history, or by working for positive change that benefits those who endure so much more loss than we, in our comparatively comfortable lives can ever know. 

Such a call can seem impossible, or at least very difficult, I know. Yet all of this is possible because we can trust in Jesus’ promise to us that we will not be left orphaned and uncared for, but that in fact Jesus is with us, the Spirit is with us, now and forever – there to comfort and console, to help and encourage, to empower and advocate for us when we have any need. This promise gives us the strength and courage we need to be the advocates, helpers, and companions that are so needed in this world. 

Let us pray… Spirit of truth, you come alongside us when our hearts are heavy with grief and pain. Encourage and strengthen us by your coming alongside us, so that we could be your presence for those in this world who are in need of your care. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit Amen. 

What does it mean to "do it right"?

One part of ministry that pastors tend to like is officiating funerals. One blessing I find in doing funerals is that they often give me something to think about, because I have the opportunity to learn from people what they most valued about their deceased loved one - all those life lessons that "we'll never forget, Dad!" I had one such funeral recently, in which the lesson from Dad was, "Do something right, or don't do it at all." 

This was a valuable lesson to the speaker, and I can see why. It is a call to excellence, something I also value. But when I heard it, I bristled a bit. In fact, it made me sad.

I have been lucky to be pretty good at most things I try. I wasn't always top of the heap in my various activities, but I was always pretty good. This is a good thing, since I am an enneagram 1, "the perfectionist," who always looks for things to be a little better than they are. As an adult, for my own peace of mind and craving for contentment, I have had to undo this programing that requires things be done "right," and learn how to let "good enough" be sufficient. I have had to learn to seek joy over perfection. If I only ever did things "right," I would lose out on so many things I really enjoy doing! 

So what if we reframed it. What if doing things "right" means that they have brought about the desired result - which could simply be that they brought joy to the doer? 

For example, I will never be an excellent ukulele player. I appreciate an excellent player, and wish I could do that, too, but the reality is that I don't want to learn how to play an E chord because it hurts my hand. Finger picking frustrates me. I don't have any need to be much better than I am, a solid intermediate player. So I play simple songs that I like to sing with chords I know, occasionally learning (and then promptly forgetting) a new chord I need for this song only. I sometimes play chords badly, but not so badly that it makes me want to stop. And boy, do I enjoy it. It brings peace and delight to my heart. And when my fingers start to hurt, I stop. Done.

Or, I like to ride my bike. I'm not exactly sure how to ride a bike besides, you know, staying upright and a rudimentary knowledge of how gears work. That's enough for me. It allows me to ride around the neighborhood with my kids, maybe go to the store. It thrills me that I live in a neighborhood where I can get places by bike. I don't intend to enter any sort of distance racing activity. Riding my bike badly is enough to accomplish what I seek: it gets me outside, I get to move my body, and spend time with my kids, and I am reminded of the thrilled of riding bikes as a child as I fly down the street (at speeds that really aren't that fast). Purpose fulfilled.

What do you do badly, that brings you joy? What does it mean to you to "do it right"? 

Sermon: A place for troubled hearts (May 3, 2026)

Easter 5A – “A place for troubled hearts.”
May 3, 2026
John 14:1-14

INTRODUCTION

One sort of quirk about the Easter lectionary is that the first few weeks of Easter we hear stories of post-resurrection appearances, as you might expect, but then this 5th Sunday of Easter, we are brought back to Holy Week – specifically Maundy Thursday. Here’s what has happened right before this exchange: Jesus has washed the disciples’ feet and given them a “new commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Judas has just left to betray Jesus. Peter has just sworn he will never leave Jesus, and Jesus tells him that in fact, Peter will deny three times even knowing him. And to top it off, Jesus has told them he’s leaving, and they can’t come with him. You can imagine, the room is thick with anxiety and fear. And we are invited in to be a part of this intimate moment.

Some context is helpful for our first reading as well, about the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. Stephen was a deacon, set apart with six others to bring food to widows. But then he was accused of preaching blasphemy, and sentenced to death by stoning. That’s the part we’ll hear today, and you may notice there are some similarities between his death and Jesus’ death: like he forgives his accusers, and he commits his spirit to God (quoting today’s Psalm). Also notice, there is a young man named Saul serving as a witness – that’s Saul, also known as Paul, yes, our Paul, St. Paul. This is his first appearance in Acts. He started as a persecutor of the church before being called as a missionary and church planter. God can use anyone for God’s purposes!

As you listen today, be aware of the state of your heart – is it anxious, fearful, joyful, wondering. How do these texts speak to your particular heart place? Let’s listen. [READ]

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

Last week and this, we are asking you to fill out a very quick assessment on congregational engagement. It’s nothing official, we’re just trying to get a snapshot of the congregation to guide us in the work of our council retreat this coming Saturday. Last week I sort of sprang it on you last minute, but here is some background: 

These 12 principles of engagement (which apply not only to churches but to non-profits more generally) came out of years of research by Gallup polling. You’ll notice that the principles listed don’t measure things like, “How often do you go to church,” or, “how many committees do you serve on.” Though many engaged members do these things as well, the research found that things like these were not the true indicators of engagement. Rather, indicators were things like, having meaningful and authentic relationships in the congregation, knowing your role in the congregation’s mission, and having your spiritual needs met and cared for. 

Last week, Deacon Emily talked in her sermon a bit about clarifying our mission and vision, such that members can better find our place in it and be excited about it. That is one of the key principles of engagement and a foundation of church growth, and as such, working with us on this is the particular ministry we have called her to do. 

This week, I’m especially interested in the principles about having spiritual needs met. I’ve had a couple of conversations with members about that this week, in which people expressed a desire to have a space to ask vulnerable questions, the sorts of questions that reveal that maybe you don’t have it all together. Questions that may reveal your doubts or concerns, or your ignorance about something, or even that leave space for what author Kate Bowler calls, “the ache of being human.” I believe, and both research and anecdotal evidence supports, that these vulnerable spaces are the places where people build and develop those authentic and meaningful relationships that so many of us crave. 

And in my experience, it is also where we meet God most profoundly, and where that life-giving relationship with the divine is best fed and deepened.

Usually, we think of having faith as being sure and confident in the power of God, and yes, I suppose at the end of the day (or at the End of Days), that is what it is all about: certainty in God’s promises. We can see glimpses of that in today’s Gospel reading in Jesus’ words, “Don’t you know that I go to prepare a place for you? I will take you there, so that where I am, there you may be also.” He tells the disciples and us that he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. In him, we have everything we need for the abundant life that we heard about last week that he came to give us. It’s all great news, trustworthy, and true, and provides a lot of hope for both now and in the hereafter.

But in light of the conversations I’ve had this week about making space for questions, I find myself drawn not just to the certainty in the room, but to the anxiety. This room where the disciples are gathered with Jesus is an anxious place, full of worry and uncertainty about the future. They already taste a sort of grief that they cannot yet fully perceive. Jesus is leaving them, Peter, of all people, will deny him, Judas is who knows where – the anxiety is increasing by the moment, and Jesus clearly notices, for the next words he says are, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” But their hearts are troubled! You can hear it in their questions. Thomas asks, “We don’t know where you are going – how can we know the way?” Philip asks, “Show us the Father, and then we will be satisfied.” You can hear their pain: we don’t have what we need, Lord. We don’t know what is happening. How can you tell our hearts not to be troubled, when there is so much going on that is extremely troubling! 

Ugh, that feels familiar, right? And so it is a great comfort to me that Jesus makes space for this. I have sometimes read Jesus’ words as dismissive of their concerns. “Oh, don’t worry. You know what to do! You’ve got this!” But when I read it through the lens of the longings of my own troubled heart, I see that Jesus is actually taking the time to hear their concerns, to leave space for them to ask their questions. To see them in their anxiety. And then yes, also to offer them comfort. But he doesn’t just say these comforting things and then say, “M-kay? You good then? Cool, cuz I’ve gotta get going to the garden to pray, get arrested, get crucified, and then change the world. Bye!” No. He doesn’t just rush away; he stays with them – for another four chapters! He stays with them in that place of uncertainty and questions, and guides them on this next phase of life, telling them how to live going forward, without him physically present with them. He promises that they will remain connected, like a vine and its branches, and that he will continue to be present with them in the form of his Spirit, the Comforter and Advocate, whom he will send in his name. He prays with and for them. He stays with them and their troubled hearts for four whole chapters! That’s as much time as John gives to Jesus’ entire passion, resurrection, and post-resurrection
combined! That’s significant! That’s how important it is!

So it would seem then, that making space not only for the certainty of faith, but also for the questions and wrestling of faith, are a part of what it means to be in Christian community. Seeing it play out here, in this most anxious of moments with the disciples, gives us the assurance that Jesus makes and is also present with us in that space of questioning and grappling and fear. 

Of course, acknowledging the reality of troubled hearts doesn’t mean that Jesus wants our hearts to stay that way! And so he also offers words of comfort, that begin with the simple command, “Believe in God, believe also in me.” In John’s theology, that word, believe, is not about intellectual agreement with a doctrine. It is about dwelling, abiding, with Jesus in relationship – a dynamic and ongoing relationship of trust that brings abundant life. So when Jesus says, “Believe in God, believe in me,” he is reminding them of this relationship, this trust and promise. It is as if to say, “You trust God. You trust me. And because that is true, you can bring your troubled hearts to this relationship, and know that I see you, and I love you, and though I am leaving you in body, I will not leave you in Spirit.” 

That is what makes it possible for us to endure through all the thoughts and realities that so trouble our hearts. That promise is what makes it possible for us to gather as Christian community and be honest about our anxiety and fear, and to be present with and for one another in it. It is because Jesus promises that none of our anxieties and questions and fears will ever block or sever us from our relationship with the Source of Life himself, the one who is the Way, the Truth and the Life, the one who will always draw us to himself.

Let us pray… Abiding God, so much in life troubles us. Be present with us and our troubled hearts. Assure us of your loving and enduring presence. And show us the way to deeper relationship with you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: We run away and God shows up (April 19, 2026)

 Easter 3A
April 19, 2026
Luke 24:13-35 (Road to Emmaus)

Today’s readings are a nice follow-up to last week’s readings. First, our lesson from Acts is, in fact, the conclusion of Peter’s sermon of which we heard the beginning last week. Peter, it turns out, the guy who is too quick to speak and frequently puts his foot in his mouth, is quite a persuasive orator. As a result of his powerful Pentecost sermon, 3000 people are baptized. Woosh! 

Our Gospel reading brings us back once again to Easter evening, several hours after the women have come to say Christ is risen (a story which the disciples dismissed at the time as an “idle tale”). Remember last week, we heard John’s version of what happened that evening, that Jesus appeared to the fearful disciples in the locked upper room and breathed his Holy Spirit on them and gave them his peace. Luke tells a different story, about Jesus appearing to two disciples (who are not a part of the usual 12) as they walk the road to the nearby town of Emmaus. It’s a very different sort of appearance from what John tells, but it has some very wonderful details and things to hold onto. One of my favorites is that the disciples observe that their hearts “burned within them” as Jesus opened the scriptures to them. So today, as you listen, notice where your heart is burning within you, in this or any of our readings. What stirs you? What is speaking to you in a way you need to hear? Perhaps mark it with a pencil, and then spend some time this week dwelling on that in prayer, and discern what God might be saying. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Painting by Mina Roller

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our risen Lord and savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

In my role as pastor, I have the honor of being entrusted with people’s stories – stories of great joy, and perhaps even more, stories of great pain. This especially happens when I’m planning funerals with families, which I’ve been doing lately with several different families. In the rawness of grief, I invite families to tell me about their deceased loved one, and their relationship with them. Sometimes the stories are funny, and we laugh together as their loved one comes alive again for a moment in the room. Other times, they divulge to me their pain, their sadness, their regrets, their efforts at healing, the ways their community has shown up for them. Sometimes the room grows thick with emotion – sadness, yes, and sometimes anxiety over unresolved pain. Every time, these conversations are holy. 

These reflections are especially poignant in the time of a death, and they are all an important part of our journey through life – the hills, the valleys, the gorgeous peeks and views, and the devastating darkness. And yet despite our trials and broken parts, we continue on, seeking to do our best as parents, friends, partners, and children of God, called to love and serve the world. 

I love this story about the Road to Emmaus, in part because of how well in captures this sense of journey, and telling the story, and the way God shows up and walks alongside us through it, even when we sometimes don’t even notice. Remember what’s going on for the disciples at this moment: this is Easter afternoon, after the women tell of the empty tomb, but before anyone has yet seen the risen Lord himself. So they are still deeply grieved, as well as confused, shocked, troubled, you name it. All they have is the women’s word about what happened, and Luke tells us they all believed this to be an “idle tale,” or more crudely, a pile of rubbish. So as far as they are concerned, their friend and teacher, the one whom they “had hoped would redeem Israel,” is dead. 

It is no wonder, then, that Cleopas and his friend are getting the heck out of dodge, heading a few miles down the road to Emmaus. We don’t know much about Emmaus, historically speaking. There is no trace of it, we don’t know its significance, and it is not mentioned anywhere else in the Bible. The thing we know about Emmaus is that, though it may be nowhere special, it is at least several miles away from here, away from what was for them an unbearable situation. 

In that sense, I suppose, we know exactly where Emmaus is, because we have all been there. We all have our Emmaus, do we not? It is the place we go to get away from here, away from whatever difficult or confusing reality we do not want to face. It is buying a new outfit, or indulging in a cigarette, or a sweet treat. It is drinking too much wine, or driving too fast. It is losing yourself in a good book or your favorite TV show. It is hanging out with friends, or working on your favorite hobby, or even going to church on Sunday. Emmaus is not an inherently bad place, you see – it is just a place that is different from here, that allows us to escape whatever unwanted realities we may be facing. In short, Emmaus is where we go when we feel broken or despairing: when things haven’t gone the way we had hoped, and we don’t know where else to go besides “away.” 

But here is the beauty and the good news of the Emmaus story: whatever realities we may try to escape, Jesus comes and walks with us there. Cleopas and his friend are walking along, talking about what happened (see, even as they try to get away, they can’t get leave behind their thoughts!), and a “stranger” joins them. He walks alongside them. He listens to them. And then he shares with them the good news about himself, causing their hearts to burn within them. 

You see, even though they don’t recognize Jesus, Jesus recognizes them, and knows what they need. As American writer and theologian, Frederick Buechner writes in his famous sermon on this story, “I believe that although the two disciples did not recognize Jesus on the road to Emmaus, Jesus recognized them, that he saw them as if they were the only two people in the world. And I believe that the reason why the resurrection is more than just an extraordinary event that took place some two thousand years ago and then was over and done with is that, even as I speak these words and you listen to them, he also sees each of us like that… And I believe that because he sees us, not even in the darkness of death are we lost to him or lost to each other. I believe that whether we recognize him or not, or believe in him or not, or even know his name, again and again he comes and walks a little way with us along whatever road we’re following. And I believe that through something that happens to us, or something we see, or somebody we know – who can ever guess how or when or where? – he offers us, the way he did at Emmaus, the bread of life, offers us new hope, a new vision of light that not even the dark world can overcome.”

And this, of course, is the stunning, surprise ending to this story – and the beginning of the disciples’ new story of hope: when they sit down together and Jesus blesses and breaks bread before them, suddenly they know he is with them, that he has walked with them even on this journey, even in this despair and brokenness. And this is what we still experience today, when we come around this table, bless bread and wine, give thanks for all that God has done, and come forward with our hands outstretched, ready to receive what he offers. 

There are times when I am distributing communion, when I see one of your faces looking into mine and I think about whatever particular pain or brokenness you are facing at this moment in time. What a privilege it is for me to then place that bread in your hand, and say to you in all truth, “This is the body of Christ, which is broken for you, even today, even right now, even in your own brokenness. The body of Christ, given for you.” This truth sometimes hits me so profoundly that I find the words difficult to get out without crying. 

This is what happens when we encounter such love, such grace, such hope. This is what can happen when we share bread together on our journeys: our eyes, which had been kept from seeing anything except our own grief and brokenness, are suddenly opened to see the light of Christ, shining on our path. 

In response to this recognition, the disciples, unable to contain their excitement, run to tell others the good news: that Christ is risen indeed, and he walks with us even in this moment. May we, too, be so bold.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Let us pray… Merciful God, we come to you as broken people, wanting to run away… but even when we do try to get away, you still come to us, offering us your truth and your own broken body. Make us ready to receive it with grateful hearts. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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.