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.

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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.