Daily Archives: July 5, 2026

A Sermon for Proper 9A, July 25, 2026

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I wonder how many of you were like me on Tuesday morning, watching your news feed with dread as we waited for the latest Supreme Court decisions. That dread deepened with the announcement of the first decision; the constitutionality of states’ bans on trans athletes. Then another decision gutting campaign finance regulations, and finally, surprisingly upholding of birthright citizenship. 

This weekend as our nation celebrates the 250th anniversary of its declaration of independence, the vision of a fully democratic, wildly diverse, union of people seems more distant than ever. Our hope of being a beacon of democracy and inclusion, a nation made stronger by the diversity of its people, is hanging on by a thread, only another Supreme Court decision, or arbitrary action by the president from being severed.

I mention this because I know it’s on all of our minds. Many of you may be wondering why there are no patriotic hymns in our order of service; after all, it’s the 4th of July, our 250th celebration, and many of us want to celebrate that. 

But just what would we be celebrating, and why would it be expected, or even appropriate, to acknowledge our nation’s founding in a service of Christian worship? Each year on the 4th of July, I read Frederick Douglass’s brilliant speech: “What to the slave is the 4th of July?” Today I wonder, “What to the refugee or immigrant is the 4th of July?” What to the people languishing in ICE detention centers is the 4th of July” “What to the LGBTQ+ community is the 4th of July? And finally, what to the faithful follower of Jesus is the 4th of July?

We’ve been hearing a lot about “Christian Nationalism” in recent years, and it’s important to note that there are many extreme versions of it—from the State of Texas requiring the reading of biblical texts in schools; the posting of the Ten Commandments in other states; or more extremely, claims that the US is a Christian nation, founded on Christian principles; and that those who aren’t Christian aren’t really American.  

In fact, Christian nationalism is embedded in almost all forms of American Christianity. Did you know that Independence Day is an official “holy day” in the Episcopal liturgical calendar? Technically, I’m obligated to hold a public service of worship on that day; although I’ve never done it, and none of the churches with which I’ve been associated have, either. Then there’s the “National Cathedral” official seat of the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, but also site of inauguration day prayer services, funerals of presidents and other prominent politicians, and other rituals of American Civil Religion. To what extent is the project of American empire supported, consciously and subconsciously by Christian imagery and Christian institutions, including, perhaps especially, the Episcopal Church, with its red, white, and blue shield? 

There’s a difference between the Christian Nationalism that has succumbed to the sin of idolatry and a true patriotism which honors our nation but is clear-eyed about both our failures as well as our successes; our weaknesses as well as our strengths, and calls us to strive for greater equality and justice.

Our gospel reading directs our attention elsewhere, to Jesus and to those who follow him. The last three Sundays we’ve read from chapter 10 which contains what scholars refer to as the second of Jesus’ five discourses in that gospel—lengthy compilations of Jesus’ teaching uninterrupted by questions or narrative episodes. The first discourse is the sermon on the mount. One of the key themes in Matthew is the presentation of Jesus as the new Moses and scholars see a parallel between Matthew’s five discourses and the five books of Moses.

The second discourse is called the missionary discourse. Jesus sends his disciples out to extend his ministry—to preach the Good News of the coming of God’s reign, and to heal the sick, cleanse lepers, and cast out demons. He gives them instructions on what to wear and what to take with them, what to do if they are rejected, and the like. 

Now in chapter 11, the emphasis shifts. The chapter begins with John the Baptist in prison, and sending some of his disciples to Jesus to ask him if Jesus is the one for whom they were waiting. That’s the background for the first section of today’s gospel reading. In it, Jesus criticizes the crowd for the way they responded to both John and himself. John was something of a dropout—he preached in the wilderness, dressed strangely and had an odd diet. Onlookers thought he might have been possessed by a demon. In the twenty-first century, he would probably be diagnosed as mentally ill. In the case of Jesus, because he spent time with tax collectors and sinners, he was regarded as a drunkard and glutton.

Jesus’ question, “What did you come out into the wilderness to see?” is as pertinent today as it was in the first century. We have our expectations, assumptions about how God acts in the world, and what God’s will is. Those expectations can lead us to ignore or overlook the ways God is working in the world and in our lives, and who God is using as God’s messengers. And in our polarized society, in all the noise of that polarization, we need to be reminded that God may be speaking and working in ways that we don’t immediately recognize or want to acknowledge. 

Among the assumptions that burden us is the assumption that following Jesus is difficult. There are good reasons for such an assumption, sayings like, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” 

But today we hear something very different. The last verses we heard are words of invitation and consolation. I repeat them almost every Sunday at the early service. They are among the so-called “comfortable words” sentences of scripture read or recited after the confession of sin and before moving into the Eucharist. In the liturgical context, they are intended to remind us of God’s love, mercy, and grace. And that’s a lovely use of them.

In their scriptural context, they show another dimension of discipleship. Yes, following Jesus can be difficult. It has consequences. But at its heart, discipleship is about relationship. The word we translate as discipleship has at its root the Greek word for to learn. In the gospels as in other religious traditions, to learn from a religious teacher, to follow a religious teacher, is first and foremost about relationship, about being together. When Jesus called his disciples, he told them, “Come, I will make you fishers of people.” Now he tells them, “Come, all you that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

That’s an invitation we need, a reminder we desperately need in our busy lives and noisy world. We are overwhelmed by so many things. We may be anxious, fearful, angry. Jesus invites us to come to him with all of that, with our worries and concerns, our burdens. He invites us to find rest in him.

Let’s not immediately think about the “rest” Jesus offers as a day off from work or a vacation. Rather, “rest” is a loaded theological term, it draws us back to creation, to God’s final act of creation, when God rested, created the Sabbath day and blessed it. 

Above all, in this context, there is a connection between “rest” and the relationship of disciple and teacher—disciple and Jesus. At the very end of Matthew, Jesus promises his continued presence with his disciples, “And lo, I will be with you always.” Here, Jesus explicates the meaning of that presence. It’s not just “being with” him. It is opening ourselves to the transformative power of that presence, to find in Jesus’ ongoing presence with us rest for our souls. 

It is also to make that same invitation to others. In Matthew 9, Jesus looked on the crowd and “he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” The world we live in, the city we live in is full of people in desperate need. Can we speak Jesus’ words to them, “Come unto him, all you that are weary and heavy-laden, and he will give you rest?”

Walking on Together: A Sermon for Proper 8A, 2026

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June 21, 2026

We’ve been reading the story of Abraham these past few weeks, and today we hear the most dramatic episode in his story. Indeed, this may be one of the most dramatic stories in all of scripture. It confronts us with a horrific dilemma and its implications concerning God’s nature and the nature of the relationship between human beings and God, the nature of faith, are deeply unsettling.

“And Yahweh tested Abraham.” 

This story, called the sacrifice of Isaac in the Christian tradition of interpretation, may be familiar, at least in its outlines, but I hoped as you listened, you were attuned to its horrific implications. What kind of a God could demand human sacrifice? We quail at that question and recoil—it can’t be about human sacrifice. It is about human sacrifice. A man is asked by his God to sacrifice his only, beloved son. We know from other texts, both in the Hebrew Bible and from parallels in other texts from the Ancient Near East, that while human sacrifice was not particularly common, it did happen, both in Israel and among Israel’s neighbors.

We can’t imagine the mindset of someone who would sacrifice their son; and if someone told us today, or tomorrow, that God was demanding it of them, we would think they were mentally ill. What sort of a human being, whether in the ancient world or in the twenty-first century, could conceive of such a thing? 

We might be inclined to write this story off as one of those stories from the Hebrew Bible that have no connection with our lives, or even with our God, but doing so would fail to take note of the important way this story has functioned in Christianity—for when one hears of God demanding the sacrifice of a son, when one hears in a story a son referred to as beloved, when one imagines an altar, and blood, and sacrifice, and a son, we are inclined to think of Jesus, God’s only, beloved son, who in the Christian tradition has been seen as sacrificing himself for us. The story of the sacrifice of Isaac is very often, perhaps inevitably interpreted in light of the story of Jesus Christ, and the story of Jesus Christ is very often, and perhaps inevitably, interpreted in light of the story of the sacrifice of Isaac.

But that doesn’t make this story any more palatable. For many Christians, the notion that God might demand or require the sacrifice of God’s son is deeply troubling. 

Our attention quite naturally is focused on the horrible dilemma faced by Abraham, and the horrific demand made by Abraham’s God. But we would do well to attend to the other character in the drama, to Isaac himself. The tradition of Jewish interpretation points us in the direction of Isaac. The story is known in Judaism not as the sacrifice of Isaac but as the Akedah, the binding of Isaac, which suggests his agency in the events. 

For one thing, we are compelled to wonder how old Isaac is at the time of the story. We know that Abraham is quite old, well over 100 years, and we know also, from the previous chapter, that Isaac is at least a young boy. We can infer from our reading that Isaac is old enough and big enough, to carry a substantial load of wood, and that he is mature and thoughtful enough to wonder why they are going up the mountain to make a sacrifice, but they have no animal which to sacrifice. 

Given this, it is not difficult to imagine that Isaac was complicit in the act, in this potential sacrifice, that he knew what was going to happen, and that he agreed to it. Still, considering this possibility does nothing to lessen the text’s terror. We are left contemplating a capricious and demanding God, a God who has promised blessing to Abraham and now demands his son. We are left contemplating a man and his son, so faithful to their God that they consider this horrific act.

So we are left with questions, hard questions about the nature of God and the nature of faith. But of course it is not just this story that forces such questions upon us—it is life itself that confronts us with questions like these, the meaning of suffering, the presence of God in the midst of pain, the possibility of faith in a world that seems cruel and meaningless at times. We might want to answer as Abraham did when his son asked about the lamb, “God will provide.” But even those words ring hollow in the midst of tragedy.

Is it even possible to wrestle meaning out of events like the death of a child? We could go further and ask about the tragedy of tornados or tsunamis, or the Holocaust. But I’m sure by now you get my point. 

This story challenges us with these questions and leaves us little to grasp for. But it does leave us with something. There is a little sentence that appears twice in the narrative as the drama and tension build.

When Abraham tells the slaves to remain behind, loads Isaac with the wood and takes the fire and knife, the text reads “So they walked on together.” And again, after Isaac asks Abraham where the ram is for the sacrifice, and Abraham responds, “God will provide,” the text reads, “So they walked on together.” 

There is something about terrible evil or suffering that can rob us of our humanity, strip away all convention and morality, all hope, and faith. In this story, facing unimagined horror, father and son walked on together, united by their love, and by their faith. 

We see that love expressed, the relationship defined in another repeated phrase. At the beginning of the story, God calls Abraham, and Abraham replies, “Here I am.” Later on, Isaac calls to Abraham, “Father,” and Abraham replies, “Here I am, my son.” As we have seen before, Abraham responds to God’s call. Abraham hears God. Now, we see him responding to his son, hearing his son. And they walk on together.

We are hearing stories these days of families torn apart by violence, of families torn apart by changing regulations concerning refugees and immigrants. We know of families, of parents who face gut-wrenching decisions concerning medical care for their children. How many of us are facing dilemmas of one sort or another—demands that seem to heavy to bear. How many of us are facing decisions we dread to make, and wondering whether God will provide?

This story is about the love of a father and son. It is also a story about faith. Just as we can’t imagine God asking us to sacrifice a child, , we may struggle with the notion that God may demand our total loyalty, our whole being. 

This story presents us with that very possibility, that when we say “Here I am, God,” God may take us seriously. Abraham heard God’s call, following God into an uncertain future, into a foreign country. Abraham responded when God called him, and considered sacrificing his son to a God who demanded everything of him. 

But he wasn’t alone. The two of them, father and son, walked on together. They faced the horrible abyss together. So, too, we. When God calls us, when God seems to demand the unthinkable, the impossible of us, we are not alone. We walk on together, as God’s people, united in faith, in love, strengthening, supporting, each other. 

Hagar’s Tears: A Sermon for Proper7A, 2026

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June 21, 2026

“When the water in the skin was gone, she cast the child under one of the bushes. Then she went and sat down opposite him a good way off, about the distance of a bowshot; for she said, “Do not let me look on the death of the child.” And as she sat opposite him, she lifted up her voice and wept.” Genesis 21: 15-16

These verses, from Genesis 21, our reading from the Hebrew Bible this morning, are terrifying and heartbreaking. They tell the story of a mother at wit’s end, facing the death of her beloved child, and her own death. She is hopeless and in despair. And in her situation, she is like so many others in our world, victims of violence and oppression abandoned by their families, their society, their fellow humans. 

Hagar is an unhoused mother, fleeing sexual violence, trying to protect herself and her child. Hagar is a refugee, fleeing oppression and war, forced from the only home she knew. Hagar is the asylum seeker, huddling with her child, hiding from ICE agents, terrified of being detained.

But it’s worse than that because Hagar’s story is not just about being cast out from her home. She was a slave and like slave women throughout history, she was at the mercy of her master and mistress. It wasn’t just that she lacked freedom. It was that they could do with her what they wanted. On this weekend when we observed Juneteenth, she is like all of the enslaved women who suffered for three centuries under the yoke of slavery in this nation.

When Abraham and Sarah still lacked an heir after years of marriage and years of God’s unfulfilled promises, they conspired to get an heir by violence and coercion. Ishmael was Abraham’s son, and as soon as Hagar became pregnant, Sarah’s resentment boiled over. She had Abraham cast her out into the desert. But God heard Hagar’s cries, rescued her, and sent her back where she gave birth to Ishmael.

Sarah’s resentment and jealousy persisted even after she gave birth to Isaac. She couldn’t stand that the two boys were friends, so she had Abraham cast Hagar and Ishmael out again. And so we have that scene of Hagar in despair in the desert, waiting for certain death.

As we read the stories of the patriarchs and matriarchs with all of their rich themes, it’s important to recognize the underside of those stories and other themes:  challenging God, of what it means not to be chosen by God, disobedience, and faithlessness. There are stories of horrific violence. Often, the lectionary chooses not to include those latter stories in our weekly readings, but today, we hear one such horrific story. 

It’s one of the stories that Phyllis Trible called “texts of terror” in her now classic work of biblical scholarship. It’s a story of sexual violence, slavery and oppression, hatred and revenge. Sarah is depicted in negative terms throughout. She is conniving, petty, and manipulative. Abraham doesn’t come off much better. He seems to submit to Sarah’s will, even when he doesn’t want to and against his better judgment.

By contrast, Hagar is shown to be both victim, vindictive and agent. The slave of Sarah, she has been taken from her homeland of Egypt and subject to foreigners—Abraham and Sarah. We don’t know her feelings when Sarah compels her to submit to Abraham’s desires but we can imagine that when she learns she is the mother of his heir, she has some hope that their treatment of her will improve and that her child will have a better life than she had. And also, being pregnant with Abraham’s heir emboldens her to hold that over Sarah. But her hopes are dashed when Sarah responds by forcing her into the wilderness the first time. A pregnant mother, she seeks refuge by a water spring, where she has an encounter with God.

God seeks Hagar out, asks her why she has fled, and where she is going. When she responds, God instructs her to return to Abraham and Sarah and tells her to name her son Ishmael which means “God hears.” In response, Hagar gives God a name—El Roi, which likely means, the God who sees, for as Hagar added, “Have I really seen God and remained alive after seeing him?”

In today’s reading, Hagar and Ishmael are again forced into the desert, where they have an encounter with God, are miraculously rescued, and Ishmael is promised that he will be the father of a great nation.

As I’m sure you know, in the Islamic tradition the stories of Isaac and Ishmael are turned upside-down, so that Ishmael is the favored son, chosen by God. Indeed during the hajj, the drama of Hagar seeking water in the desert is reenacted ritually by the pilgrims as they run seven times between two hills near Mecca.

There are so many levels to this story. In one sense, Hagar’s story is the story of Israel. Like the Israelites in Egypt, Hagar was a slave. Like the Israelites, she wandered in the wilderness where she encountered God and experienced a miraculous gift of water. Like the Israelites, she was forced out a second time, into exile, like the Babylonian captivity. But unlike the Israelites who returned home to Jerusalem and received new promises from God, Hagar’s life ends in exile.

The story is also the story of Arab and Jew. In Genesis, Ishmael is understood to be the father of the Arabs, and of course, he is a great patriarch for the Muslims.

This is a complex story with layer upon layer of meaning. It’s a story in which none of the characters come off very well. Sarah, for example, has followed Abraham on his foolhardy journey in response to God’s call. She’s had to leave the comforts of family and home behind, and after all these years she has nothing to show for it. Her lack of a child makes her worthless in the eyes of her culture. But then she takes matters into her own hand and whatever sympathies we might have had for her vanish. Abraham is depicted as weak-willed. God doesn’t come off very well, either. God is arbitrary and even though God rescues Hagar, God forces her back into a difficult situation and tells her that she and her son are not favored. And Hagar herself. We see her in today’s reading as victim, but in the earlier story, when she discovers she is pregnant, she does humiliate Sarah.

It’s a complex, difficult story and in that way it is a story about life, a story about us. Human beings are not one-sided, all good or all bad. We are complicated; our stories are complicated. Hagar isn’t perfect. She’s a victim but she’s also vindictive. And yet, she is the first woman in scripture to be visited by God, the only woman in scripture to give God a name. She’s the only woman who receives the promise that she will have many descendants. She’s the first woman in scripture to weep over a dying child.

That very complexity may be why her story is in scripture. For it is a story that reminds us about the complexity of human beings, the complexity, the complexity of salvation. We like to think it’s all very simple. That God called Abraham, that God blessed Abraham, that Abraham prospered. We want to identify with that story.

But then there’s Hagar whose story reminds us that Abraham isn’t quite so simple or exemplary as we want him to be. There’s Hagar, who’s a victim and vindictive, who encounters God, is rescued by God, and who still has to live with the knowledge that in the end, God preferred Sarah and Abraham.

In the end, we may need to remember that Hagar is the story of salvation, the story of Jesus. She wasn’t an angel. She wasn’t perfect. But Jesus didn’t come only to the worthy, only to those who suffer their oppression silently and submissively. Jesus comes to all those who struggle in oppression, in poverty and need. God hears those who cry out in the midst of their suffering, in the midst of their oppression.

Hagar’s story is our story. How many of us are with her in the desert, feeling hopeless, in despair. How many of us feel crushed by the weight of our lives, crushed by the weight of the world, the oppressive structures from which there is no escape. How many of us regret decisions we have made, ways we have hurt our loved ones or ourselves, that have brought us to this place. How many of us are seeking Jesus, wondering whether we deserve his grace, deserve his love?

Jesus comes to us, and to those we have cast out, and is with us, in our pain, suffering, and need. Jesus comes to us, and offers us the water of life. Jesus comes to those we’ve cast out. He reminds us that they too are our mothers, our sisters, our children, that whatever sins they’ve committed do not excuse our oppression or disdain or coldness of heart. Jesus calls us to reconcile with them and offer them water, food, shelter, and hope.