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. 

Bad Bunny and the accompaniment mission model

As a spiritual leader, I'm always interested to see (and try to understand) whatever is the moral outrage de jour. This week, of course, it is the SuperBowl halftime show, featuring Grammy-winner and top-streamed artist globally, Bad Bunny, a Catholic and American citizen of proud Puerto Rican heritage.

Conservative America pushed against this selection, for a range of reasons, and Turning Point USA put on an alternative halftime show featuring Kid Rock. To start, I simply don't understand how Kid Rock is the family-friendly, moral high ground here. Dude's lyrics in a 2001 called pedophilia "mandatory," and when given the chance, he showed no remorse for this - even as the world is grappling with the release of the Epstein files. 

Lots of people have written thoughtful pieces on the beauty of Bad Bunny's presentation, and the incongruity of calling Kid Rock the faithful, All-American alternative, so I'll leave that to them. 

What I want to address is the idea held by so many "Christians" that because the vast majority of Bad Bunny's performance was in Spanish, it was un-American. 

First of all, Spanish is the most common non-English language spoken by Americans at home (13-14%). That's significant. Along with this, representation matters. Think of the kids at home who speak Spanish, hearing and seeing a native Spanish speaker perform in their language on this biggest of American stages. Suddenly, they can see themselves there. They see that they belong in their country. It's not unlike my friend's AuDHD daughter watching with delight as neurodivergent ice skater Amber Glenn won a gold medal. When minorities are celebrated and lifted up, we are celebrating the beautiful diversity that makes America the incredible place it is. 

But I'm also thinking about this as a Lutheran pastor. In my denomination, the ELCA, we are committed to a model of mission we call "accompaniment." It is a counter to the colonialist model of mission that says, "We have something you don't have, and you will be better if we give you our thing" - whether that thing is our tools, our music, our clothing, or our way of operating in the world. This sends the message, "Our way is best. You don't have anything of value to offer me." And also implied, "I am the one in power here." This model is manifest in a white supremacist mindset - something of which we are becoming increasingly aware but which has been a part of America since the Mayflower landed.

The accompaniment model sees this as an affront to each of our uniquely beautiful identities as children of God, made in God's image. The ELCA defines accompaniment as "walking together in a solidarity that practices interdependence and mutuality." It embraces values like mutuality (mission "with" and "among," not "to"), inclusivity (relationships that don't exclude or divide), vulnerability (opening ourselves to others), empowerment (correcting imbalance of power, including recognizing and letting go of our own power), and sustainability (imbedding mission in ongoing relationships and communities). 

What's this got to do with Bad Bunny's halftime show? Well, I'm noticing how "colonialist" (or white nationalist) the reaction to the mere fact of his performance is, even before we get to the performance content. The expectation is that a performer at the SuperBowl must perform primarily in English. What if instead we went in with an accompaniment mindset - with values like mutuality inclusivity, vulnerability, empowerment and sustainability in the forefront? What if we asked questions (of ourselves and our children) like:

What must it be like for people whose primary language is other than English to operate in a mostly-English world? (As someone who lived in a non-English-speaking country as a Lutheran missionary for a year, I'll tell you that hearing English delighted me every single time it happened!)

How does it feel for a Spanish-speaking kid to hear their own language used and celebrated on this national stage?

If something about this performance makes me uncomfortable, why is that? Is it because it is unfamiliar to me and different from my own culture? Or is it the content or presentation itself? Why?

What can I learn about my own cherished culture, by watching this celebration of a different one (that also exists in my country)?

What can I learn about Puerto Rico and its culture from this - knowing that PR is an American territory about which I know very little?

What do I have in common with this celebration of Latino culture? What do we share?

What is different that I actually kind of like? What do I wish my own culture had more of? (In interfaith dialogue, this is called "holy envy" - what do I see in a different tradition that I wish my own had more of?)

It makes me sad how many people were simply unwilling to engage in this opportunity to learn, to see how another kind of American understands this identity we share. I believe such exposure helps us understand our colorful country better, and to value it more deeply and more complexly. But I also believe deep in my being that the more we are willing to learn from people who are different from us, the better we can know God, who made all humankind in God's image. 

(Disclaimer: I don't know if this image is copyrighted! But I'm seeing it all over social media, so I'm hoping it is okay to use it here, since I'm not profiting on it.)

Sermon: Being salt and light (Feb. 8, 2026)

Epiphany 5A
February 8, 2026 – Emily’s Installation
Isaiah 58:1-12; Matthew 5:13-20

INTRODUCTION

Today’s lectionary drops us into what is called “Third Isaiah,” the part of Isaiah that is speaking to the Israelites as they are returning from being in exile for the past 70 years. After the Jerusalem Temple had been destroyed by the Babylonian Army, the Israelites had been sent away to live in Babylon, away from all that they knew about faith. Now, they are back, and they’re trying to figure out how to live lives of faith in their drastically changed circumstances. They are fasting, which is a good faith practice, but even as they fast (and wonder why God isn’t impressed by this), they are still oppressing their workers, and doing all kinds of things that are the opposite of what their faith calls them to. Isaiah calls them back to the essence of their faith: share bread with the hungry, free the oppressed, clothe the naked, restore the breach, repair the streets. Do these things, and you will see God working among you. Do these things, he says, and your light will shine.

That light bit ties us right into the Gospel reading, as Jesus tells us we are the light of the world. Today’s reading continues the Sermon on the Mount. Last week we heard the Beatitudes, in which Jesus speaks to a crowd of broken and hurting people and calls them blessed. Today he tells those same people that they are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Salt and light: two precious things that are essential for life! And Jesus says we are like that, too!

As you listen, hear not only the instructions of Isaiah, but the affirmations in Matthew. So often we hear in the Bible things that we should do or be. In Matthew, Jesus will tell us how God already sees us. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

“You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” 

I think, in a world which so often places demands on us, we might be tempted to hear these exhortations from Jesus as commands. “You ought to be the salt of the earth. You should be more like the light of the world.” But no – right here at the beginning of his sermon, Jesus starts by telling people not what they should be, but what they already are. It is not so much command as it is promise, an identity we already possess as baptized and beloved children of God. You are the light of the world. You are the salt of the earth. That is how God sees us. And when we know that about ourselves, it becomes easier to live into that identity, right? 

Maybe you don’t believe me. Good people of St. Paul’s, I will prove this to you. 

A couple years ago, when St. Paul’s received a large bequest, the very first thing you did was give away 10% of it, a tithe. Then you decided we should give away another 20% more of it, and to put another quarter of it in an endowment fund so that we can continue to give away large sums of money every year to people in need. Per our vision statement, you are “making the world a better place.” You are the light of the world. 

You have donated a crazy amount of food and goods over the years to Loop Ministries, Pittsford Food Cupboard, ESWA, Rochester Hope, and many more local organizations. You serve on boards for these and other organizations that are doing such good work toward helping those in our community who are in need. You use your connections and passions to make our larger community a great place to live. You are “building a strong community.” You are the salt of the earth.

You use your unique and abundant gifts to help this congregation and its ministries to run smoothly – whether that is making food, decorating, organizing things or information, working with technology, supporting our staff, making decisions about our finances or our building, making quilts, teaching children, making music, creating and polishing healthy policies… the list of skills and gifts put to work here is endless! And you share them joyfully, and generously. You are the salt of the earth!

You also care for one another, giving rides to members who can’t drive, sending cards and delivering meals, checking in on each other, going grocery shopping, or simply spending the time to go visit one another. You sing in the choir, or sit on the council, or make the coffee and treats or order the cake, or help lead worship, or plan fellowship events or service opportunities. You care about justice, and work toward it in your free time, writing letters, making calls, showing up. You pray for one another and the world God made. You are the light of the world!

With a diversity of people and gifts in this place, you manage to serve a diversity of needs in the world. You, my dear people, are already the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

Of course, how it looks to be salt and light in the world is always changing as the world around us changes, and as different needs arise. And sometimes our diversity of gifts also extends to a diversity of opinions, and thus different ideas of how being salt and light should look. We all care deeply about different things, and want our energy as a congregation to go in different directions. While our diversity of gifts and opinions can certainly be an advantage, sometimes those differences can make it hard to focus our saltiness and light in the same direction at the same time! We have different priorities.

In a moment, we will formally install Deacon Emily as our new Minister of Community Connections and Outreach. The role of a deacon is to serve as a bridge between church and world, and to equip the saints (that’s you!) to lead a living, active, and caring Christian life. To that end, one of the main things she will be doing with us is helping us know how we, in all our diversity of skills and opinions, are called to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world in this time and place. She will help us discover our passions, and the needs of the world, and to see where those things overlap. She will listen deeply to us, and help us listen deeply to each other and to the Word of God, to determine where our passions, both collective and unique, might align with the world’s need for salt and light, and help us discover how to meet that need sustainably and joyfully. Having spent the past weeks getting to know Deacon Emily, I know she will do a faithful job of this, and I hope that we will all be open to hearing how God and our community are calling us to be salt and light in this time and place.

We may very well discover what we didn’t even know we had in common, and we may also find a lot of things about which we still differ. But there is, of course, one very important thing that holds us all together in this work, and that is our belief that our loving God not only made each of us so beautifully unique, but also understands our brokenness; that this God loves us so much as to send us Jesus, to first proclaim to us our belovedness, our blessedness, to promise us we are already salt and light, to teach us to love our neighbors as ourselves, and finally to take all of our brokenness with him to the cross, bury it deep in a tomb, and rise again to bring us new life, new hope, new opportunity. We are all held together by a love that could do that for this here bunch of sinners, and by a love that then motivates and empowers us to be the salt and the light, to share that message with the world in word and in deed. 

I’m so excited to see what God will do here at St. Paul’s in the coming years, through us, through Deacon Emily, and through our work together with our various community partners. Will we do more of what Isaiah implores – “Share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to clothe them”? Will we work toward being, as Isaiah says, a “repairer of the breach, a restorer of streets to live in”? Will we build new relationships with new communities, or deepen existing ones? There’s no end to the possibilities of ways to be salt and light in this world. I can’t wait to see!

Whatever happens, I know that God will use our gifts and our passions, our differences, and our similarities in a way that lets us spread God’s love further than we could have alone. Thanks be to God for making us salt and light, so that together we might bring God’s own life and brightness to a world in need. 

Let us pray… God of life, we thank you for the assurance that we are the light of the world and the salt of the earth. Embolden us to live out this God-given identity in ways that bring life and hope to our community. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.