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Searching for, and finding, Joy: A sermon for Proper 19C, 2025

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September 14, 2025

It’s been a rough week, hasn’t it? For that matter, 2025 has been a rough year; another challenging year on top of the other years we’ve been having—Wars in Gaza and Ukraine, Global warming, political and cultural conflict, gun violence, all the rest; COVID; threats to our health. We’re beaten down, worried like we’ve never been worried before—the familiar words of Yeats’ poem sounding truer than they did when he wrote them over a century ago: “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.”

Our Christian faith seems less a bulwark against the coming onslaught than a fading wisp—not just the growing irrelevance to our culture, but all the ways it has been weaponized to create division and rationalize violent hatreds. Our beloved cultural institutions and products of human creativity: higher education, the arts and humanities eviscerated and exploited, mined for profits; scientific excellence and research demonized and destroyed.

In the presence of all that, a small glimmer of joy and hope—light once more streaming through our beautiful stained glass windows as our roof project draws closer to completion and we can once again enjoy the beauty of our space as we lift our voices, our minds, and hearts to worship God.

In our gospel reading, we are once again confronted with grumbling Pharisees, annoyed that Jesus hung out with tax collectors and sinners. We need to pause for a moment and remind ourselves who these groups are. I know I say this repeatedly, but it’s because the negative image of “Pharisee” is so firmly fixed in our consciousness. We think of them as moral prigs policing the behavior of the population and especially of Jesus. We regard them as literalists of legal interpretation. But they weren’t. They were a movement within first-century Judaism that sought to extend the law to daily life, to give ordinary people a way of connecting their faith to their lives. The law, the Torah, was and still is, perceived by Jews to be a wonderful thing. The conflict between Pharisees and Jesus was about how to interpret the law correctly, a debate internal to Judaism.

Tax collectors, again as I’ve said often before were reviled because they collaborated with the occupying Roman power, and because the system was set up so that they exploited the people from whom they were extracting taxes; the more money they got from the people, the more they could keep for themselves.

Sinners were not primarily those who occasionally had moral lapses. They were notorious sinners, who because of their behavior were excluded from polite society. In other words, Jesus hung out with the worst sort of people. You can draw your own analogies about who those groups might be in our context.

So now we come to the parables. The Pharisees and scribes were grumbling about Jesus’ outrageous behavior and in response he tells them two stories. To get what these parables are about you have to shift your focus. We are inclined to put ourselves in the story—as the sheep or the coin that was lost. But that’s exactly the wrong place to begin. Instead, we need to begin with Jesus’ question to the scribes and Pharisees: “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” Which one of you would do that? None of us would. We would do a cost/benefit analysis and cut our losses, leaving the one to die while making sure the 99 were safe.

And the second story—about the coin? We can imagine losing something precious and search diligently for it, high and low, systematically. 

The parable describes in great detail the woman’s actions, she lights a lamp, sweeps the floor. The narrative almost stops for a moment, heightening tension, so that the discovery becomes even more dramatic. But then what happens? She throws a party, invites her friends, spends what, as much or double the worth of the coin she had lost? We can see ourselves searching for something, but throwing a party, and throwing what we found away in rejoicing? Who of us would do that?

 Two people behaving completely unexpectedly, in ways that make utterly no sense by any rational analysis. They were so overjoyed by the finding that it’s almost as if they lost their bearings. Nothing else mattered but that joy, and offering others the opportunity to share in that joy.

It’s clear that Luke wants us to see the point of the story to be God’s extravagant joy in welcoming a repentant sinner. So be it. No doubt it fills us with love and gratitude toward God to imagine ourselves welcomed in such a way. But how do we respond? Do we show forth our gratitude as extravagantly as God shows forth God’s love? Is our joy so great that we show it by sharing it as lavishly as the shepherd or the woman shared their joy?

It may be that those feelings of joy are long-forgotten, submerged under the reality of daily life, all of the struggles we have. It may also be that sometimes we may come to feel the joy we once felt was not real, but induced or the product of youthful exuberance. It may be that the joy we should feel is tempered by the responsibilities we have, the concerns and commitments that are in the forefront of our minds, the obligations that church seems to burden us with. 

It may be that the barrage of events in the world around us have so overwhelmed us that whatever joy we might have felt is buried beneath feelings of anger, despair, anxiety, fear and helplessness. It’s hard to feel joy, it may even seem inappropriate, to feel joy when so many people are suffering, as we watch our institutions and cherished values crumble.

            Maybe, just maybe, we are being called to express and share joy in these dark days. What brings you joy? Do you even remember? That’s one of the things I like about ballroom dance. Sure it’s a slog. We’ve been working on a new bolero routine most of the summer. Friday I almost nailed it, but it still needs work. It can be exhausting and frustrating. But when we’re at a dance, and a foxtrot comes on, there is joy in movement and joy on the faces of the others in the room.

Where’s the joy for you? If you’re here because you’ve experienced God’s love and grace and continue to experience it, there’s nothing that you need to do out of obligation or responsibility in response to God. The sheep and the coin that once were lost had been found. The ones searching for them rejoiced and celebrated at their rediscovery. Our gratitude to God should explode in as much joy and celebration. Our gratitude should express itself in all that we do, in all that we are. We should express our joy, share our gratitude in our worship, as we gather for fellowship; when we give of ourselves and our resources. May we all practice and share the joy of God’s love! 

“Lord, Teach us to pray” A Sermon for Proper 12C, 2025

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July 27, 2025

Yes, I’ll say a few words about the Hosea reading. It wasn’t uncommon in the prophetic tradition for the prophets to receive instructions from God to do certain things that had symbolic meaning for their prophetic calling and for their audience. Thus, Jeremiah was told to buy a field as a symbol of God’s promise that the people would continue to inhabit the promised land. Similarly, Ezekiel was told not to mourn his wife’s death.

In the case of Hosea, however, it is rather extreme, even offensive. He is told to take a prostitute as a wife, and to give his children names that spelled out God’s displeasure with the people. There’s no way around this, and what seems to be a deeply misogynistic text, and problematic marriage, is just that. It should offend our sensibilities and challenge us to think deeply and uncomfortably about all the ways in which scripture and our religious traditions can continue to support and advance deeply oppressive and unjust systems. While there is much more one could say about Hosea and the prophetic tradition, I’ll leave it at that and turn our attention to the gospel reading.

“Lord, teach us to pray.” I wonder if there is any question asked by the disciples that breaks my heart more than this simple request. They have been walking with Jesus for months, learning from him, receiving power to heal just as he healed. They had seen him praying. In the gospel of Luke, one of the key aspects of Jesus’ depiction is the emphasis on prayer, Jesus praying at particularly difficult moments, going off by himself. They had seen all that but they didn’t know how to pray.

I sympathize with them. I don’t know how to pray. And regularly lay people come to me asking about prayer, looking for instruction or guidance. As Anglicans, we’re fortunate because in the Book of Common Prayer, we have a treasury of prayer. There are the psalms, of course, which are the prayers of God’s people going back 2 and a half millennia and more, speaking for us, across all those centuries.

Though the Book of Common Prayer is rather newer, dating from the mid-16th century, it too has roots that go back much further. When Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, created it, he drew on centuries of monastic practice and common liturgical forms. Take the collect I prayed this morning. It is originally from a liturgical book that was sent by the Pope to Charlemagne around the year 800, and provided the basis for much of the Roman liturgy throughout the Middle Ages. Cranmer translated it, lightly edited it, and it has been used ever since.

I know that the Book of Common Prayer is relatively unfamiliar to many of you. Unless you attend our Rite I service at 8:00 regularly when you are directed to page numbers for the liturgy, for the most part we print all or most of our liturgy in the service bulletin. Indeed, in this season after Pentecost, our 10:00 worship diverges considerably from what’s printed in the BCP, as we’re using the expansive language version of Prayer C.

Still, there’s much more in the BCP than the Eucharist services. They start on  page 323 or 355, after all. There’s the psalter, of course, the ancient prayers of God’s people which can continue to speak to and us, and speak to God for us. 

The psalter comes near the end of the BCP. It begins, however, with the Daily Office, Morning and Evening Prayer. As with the Eucharist, there are two versions of each. Rite I, is traditional language, with “Thees and Thous.”  Rite II, is more contemporary language, at least as contemporary as it was 50 years ago. Cranmer adapted the monastic hours for lay people, condensing the 6 or 9 daily prayer services of monasticism into 2 services, intended for use by ordinary people. As printed in the BCP, the service is rather complicated to follow. Fortunately there are apps like Venite, which I refer to in the bulletin, that lay it all out for you. 

The next major section, and important for our purposes today are the collects, in traditional and contemporary language versions. There are collects appointed for every Sunday and feast day, and if you leaf through the collection, you will also find collects for various occasions. They are succinct prayers that follow a specific form, and are meant to help us gather our thoughts and focus our attention. They often express profound theological and spiritual insights and are worth paying close attention to and meditating on.

Interspersed throughout the BCP are other collects that can speak to particular situations, and speak for us in times of need: for example, in the Rite for the Ministration to the Sick, there are prayers that may be of comfort during illness and recovery (beginning p. 457). 

Another collection of prayers begins on p. 814. Again, leafing through the section, you’ll find prayers for all sorts of situtations, for various groups of people. As I said at the outset, the Book of Common Prayer is a treasure house of prayer, and it is my hope that you learn to rely on it as you cultivate your own life of prayer.

There’s much more to prayer than reading prayers that were written 50 or 500 or 1500 years ago. Like any spiritual discipline, like any discipline, developing a rich prayer life takes practice, time, and energy. 

Many of you know that my wife and I are ballroom dancers. We take lessons regularly; we work on routines; we pay for coaching with other instructors. Last January, we went to three-day dance camp in Florida; we expect to do so again in 2026. Still, I’m hardly a proficient dancer and my teacher regularly encourages me to practice more. But if I spent as much time and energy on my prayer life as I spend dancing, I wonder what it would be like; what rich depths of relationship I would be experiencing with God in Christ.

And I know it can be frustrating, when we can’t find the words to pray, adequate language to express our needs to God. We may wonder what we should be praying for, whether what we’re asking God is something we deserve. 

Perhaps the key element in the Lord’s Prayer, the words our Lord taught us, are the first two words: “Our Father…” We may even balk at the patriarchy that is expressed there but at its heart is relationship. And ultimately, that’s what prayer is. It’s not that Jesus was the first to address God as Father, Abba, in Aramaic; but his prayer life seems to have been particularly intimate, a deep relationship with God. And with “Our Father…” he is inviting us into that relationship as well. Paul tells us that early Christians, even those whose language was Greek, not Aramaic, addressed God as “Abba” in their prayers, testimony to the importance of that intimate relationship and the desire to cultivate an even deeper relationship with God like Jesus had.

Whatever words you use, however you pray, deepening that relationship with God should be the goal of your prayer life. And remember, that when words can’t come to you, when words don’t come to you, prayer is still possible. Paul also reminds us that the Holy Spirit intervenes on our behalf, “in sighs too deep for words.” 

Lord, teach us to pray!

Eating with Jesus: A Sermon for Easter 3C, 2025

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3 Easter

May 4, 2025

We are well into the Easter season. Today is the 3rd Sunday of Easter, and the continues right through the Feast of Pentecost on June 8. While the celebration of Easter Day may seem to be fading in our memories; there are no brass instruments accompanying our worship, no lingering, faint smell of incense in the nave, in our lectionary readings we are still hearing stories of the appearance of the Risen Christ to the disciples. 

And this one, from the 21st, the last chapter of John, is one of the most interesting and most intriguing of all. There are so many fascinating details; so many elements of the story that take us back to earlier stories in the gospel, and there are so many questions that arise in our minds as we listen to it.

First of all, where it comes in the narrative. At the end of chapter 20, the so-called story of “Doubting Thomas”—we hear these verses: 

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

That sounds to me like a great way to end a gospel—there’s a lot more I could say, the gospel writer is saying, but I’ve given you enough to get the full picture.

It seems like chapter 21 is tacked on; there’s no evidence of that, but it’s intriguing. Then there’s the location—the Sea of Galilee, here called the Sea of Tiberias. It’s not a location of any great significance in John’s gospel, although it was in the others. Indeed, there’s a very similar story of a miraculous catch of fish in the Gospel of Luke, and it is the prelude to Jesus calling Peter and the other disciples to be his disciples. Interestingly, Luke mentions Peter and the Sons of Zebedee in his story. The same three are present here in John, but they are accompanied by two others who are mentioned only in John—Nathaniel, from chapter 1, and Thomas who played such an important role in last week’s gospel reading. Also, curiously, this is the first mention in the gospel of John that Peter and the others were fishermen.

The beloved disciple is mentioned again, as at the last supper, at the foot of the cross, and the empty tomb; and once again, it appears that he’s quicker to pick up on what’s happening than Peter is. 

There’s Peter, who oddly puts on clothes before jumping in the lake to swim to shore. I mean, who does that?

Then there’s the miraculous catch of fish: precisely 153. It had never occurred to me before until I read a commentary on this this week. The disciples, knowing the Risen Christ is on shore waiting for them, stop to count the number of fish they’ve got. Oh, and the 153—you have no idea how much ink has been spilled speculating on the significance of that number. It was Augustine of Hippo who pointed out that 153 is the sum total if you add all the numbers up from 1-17.

Have to mention as well, the detail that the net was not torn—that’s been used as a symbol of the unity of the church from a very early point.

There’s the brazier—mentioned here and in the story of Peter’s denial of Jesus after his arrest. Need I point out that Jesus asks Peter three times if he loves him, paralleling Peter’s three-time denial of him earlier. And the loaves and fish—Jesus offers the disciples the same menu as he offered the crowd at the feeding of the 5000.

One more thing. Jesus’ questions of Peter. The shift between sheep and lambs; and in the Greek different vocabulary for love. The first two times, Jesus uses a form of “agape”, while Peter responds with a form of phile; the third time, Jesus and Peter both use “phile.” It used to be commonly thought that “Agape” was a deeper kind of love—the love of community, while “phile” is more “brotherly” or “fraternal” love. But it’s pretty clear from both the Gospel of John and other contemporary texts that the two words were used interchangeably.

So, are your heads spinning yet?

But perhaps the most significant parallel has to do with the location—the Sea of Tiberias or Sea of Galilee. It’s mentioned here, and in chapter 6; where it is the site of Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand. And it’s a similar meal on both occasions: bread and fish. The Feeding of the Five Thousand is the jumping off point for Jesus’ great discourse on the bread, an extended reflection on the meaning of the bread of the Eucharist, Jesus as the Bread of Life. Jesus says there: 

Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; 55for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. 56Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. 

When we think of Christ’s resurrection or the presence of the risen Christ, we tend to think of those gospel stories: of Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the Risen Christ in the garden or the appearance of the Risen Christ to the disciples in the upper room. We tend to think of those spectacular events.

Or for another spectacular appearance of the Risen Christ, consider Paul’s experience on the Road to Damascus; struck down, struck blind; transformed from a persecutor of the Gospel to an apostle of the Gospel. We may not consider Paul’s experience quite like those gospel stories. But Paul did. When he describes it in I Corinthians 15, at the end of his list of the appearances of the Risen Christ, Paul writes, “And last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared to me. For I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle, … but by the grace of God I am what I am.”

Gathered around that charcoal fire, eating bread and fish; the disciples were in the presence of the Risen Christ. They might have wanted to linger over that meal, to enjoy being in his presence and being with each other, to rest after a long night’s work. 

But Jesus had other plans. He took Simon Peter aside and asked him three times, “Do you love me?” And three times, he said in response to Peter’s affirmation, “Feed my sheep.” Relationship with Christ, experience of the Risen Christ is not just about, or primarily about, our own spiritual experience, our own personal faith. It is about what we are called to do for others. To feed them, to offer them daily bread and the bread of life. 

But even more. It had never occurred to me before this week as I was preparing this sermon, and I don’t know how many times I have read this chapter; discussed in classes both as student and teacher. It had never occurred to me that in the Gospel of John, Jesus’ last words are to Peter, after he tells him to “Feed my sheep.” He says then, “Follow me.” He will say it again to him a few verses later, “Follow me.”

Think about it. Where was he going? In the synoptic gospels, of course, the story ends not with resurrection or resurrection appearances, but with Jesus’ final departure from his disciples, his ascension, to the right hand of God, as our creeds say. In the gospel of John, that’s not quite the case. Jesus says to Peter, “Follow me.” Follow me, away from here into the future, into the unkown.

Jesus says to us, Feed my sheep. He also says, “Follow me.” He is calling us to follow him, into the future, into the uncertainty of the world in which we live and into the world that is being made. He is telling us to follow him as disciples, making disciples. He is calling us to gather around charcoal fires and tables,, to encounter him in the breaking of the bread and in the community gathered. He is calling us to follow him, into the unknown, into the world. Let us heed his call and follow him.

What must we do to be saved? A Sermon for Easter 7C, 2025

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7 Easter

June 1, 2025

As we have been reading from the Acts of the Apostles this Eastertide, we have encountered the stories of some remarkable women. There was Dorcas or Tabitha in Joppa, who was devoted to good works and charity, and who Peter raised to life after her death. Last week, we met Lydia, a dealer of purple cloth, a God-Fearer who came to believe, with her whole household was baptized, and welcomed Paul and his companions into her home, establishing a house church in the city of Philippi.

In today’s reading, we are still in Philippi, and we encounter Paul and Silas, heading again to the place of prayer where they had first met Lydia. As they make their way, they are followed by a slave girl, who had a spirit of divination, we’re told, and was very profitable for their owners. 

She is a puzzling figure for us, quite out of our ordinary experience. While we know about fortune tellers, astrologers, and the like, they aren’t people most of us encounter regularly; we don’t typically seek them out for help. We’re more accustomed to visit medical or mental health professionals. When we do seek out alternatives, it’s not because we think they are possessed by spirits of divination, we might think they have unique expertise or insight, a product of their innate abilities, or specialized training. That’s not true of other cultures of course in which the shaman plays an important role for individuals and their communities. 

The contrast between these two women couldn’t be more extreme. Lydia, the householder, the independent businesswoman making her way in the world, making decisions, leading a house church. And the slave girl, a commodity, exploited by her owners for their economic gain. But her gift, or possession, gives her unique power.

The contrast between Paul’s response to the two women is equally extreme. He is not annoyed by Lydia—he engages her, answers her questions, preaches to her, baptizes her and her household. The slave girl simply annoys him. I get that. He’s on his way to the “place of prayer” the place he had met Lydia. He’s hoping to meet others with whom he might engage, others with whom he might share the good news. And as he goes, he’s probably thinking about all that, planning his conversation, running over scenarios in his mind, his answers to questions, or responses to critics. But instead, there’s this slave girl, following them shouting: “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.”

We’re told that this wasn’t a one-time occurrence. We’re told she kept doing this for many days. We’re also told that Paul was very annoyed. I get that. When I’m distracted while trying to get work done, I get really frustrated. That’s been happening a lot lately. There are the unhoused people who stop me while I’m on my way to an appointment or meeting; or who linger around the church during the day. Most annoying and distracting right now is the construction that’s going on outside my office window. It’s loud, and I worry it’s only going to get louder when they begin erecting the steel for the new museum. I wish I could open my window and shout out at them, “Shut up!” A lot of good that would do.

So I get Paul’s response. And let’s be clear. He doesn’t respond to her because of his concern for her well-being, a desire to help or heal her, from compassion or mercy. No, she has annoyed him and he wants to eliminate the annoyance. He could care less about her; he cares about what she is doing to him. And that’s the last we see of her. We might wonder about the consequences for her of Paul’s actions. She’s lost her value for her owners. Do they take that out on her by punishing her, or by selling her? What’s going to happen to her? Whatever power or standing she had because of her unique gift has vanished with the spirit that possessed her.

Well, Acts isn’t interested in any of those questions. Instead the story goes on to explore the consequences of Paul’s actions for him and his companions. And here we see the full power of the slave girl’s owners, and the full weight of the Roman judicial system arrayed against them. They were publicly stripped, flogged, and thrown in prison. 

I’m interested in the various places these stories play out—the place of prayer outside the city walls; the city streets that lead to that place of prayer; Lydia’s household; the marketplace; the prison; and finally, again, Lydia’s household. Public and private spaces; safe and dangerous spaces. 

And I’m interested in the ways in which the gospel, the good news of Jesus Christ, as well as Paul and Silas who are proclaiming it, disrupt and occupy those spaces. We might wonder whether Paul’s visits to that place of prayer, whether or not it was a synagogue, proved disruptive to the Jewish community who gathered there. It very likely was, as other stories from the Book of Acts attest. 

We can see how Paul and Silas disrupt the streets of the city, whether it’s because the slave girl is shouting after them as they pass through the city, or because they have cast out that spirit of divination. We see the disruption in the marketplace, with the accusations and the flogging. And finally, we see the disruption in the prison, as the miraculous earthquake brings down the walls and offers liberation to those incarcerated inside.

Such disruption can lead to fear and anxiety as old certainties and structures dissolve, but it can also mean liberation. We see that dynamic at play in the response of the jailor, who worries for his life and livelihood in the wake of the earthquake and the prospect that the incarcerated persons under his care might go free. Instead of personal disaster, the jailor himself and his whole household experience liberation as they respond to the good news of Jesus Christ and are baptized.

And here we begin to see the full power of the new life in Christ. The power of love and reconciliation takes hold as the prisoners’ wounds are tended to, and they take their place at his table, receiving his hospitality. Here we see, in all its simplicity almost in shorthand, the central rituals, the life of the new community of Christ, taking place at night in a home: The Word is preached, wounds are healed, table fellowship, baptism.

Our reading ends here, but the story continues and its final episode is of great significance. In the morning, the magistrates send the police to see what has happened. They want the episode to end; they want the prisoners to leave town quietly, to leave without disrupting things. But Paul refuses to go quietly:

But Paul replied, ‘They have beaten us in public, uncondemned, men who are Roman citizens, and have thrown us into prison; and now are they going to discharge us in secret? Certainly not! Let them come and take us out themselves.’ The police reported these words to the magistrates, and they were afraid when they heard that they were Roman citizens; so they came and apologized to them.”

Confronted by the destruction of the system of power in which he was enmeshed, the jailor feared for his life. What might freedom from those bonds have looked like to him? So he asked, “What must I do to be saved?” There’s a certain irony, a double-ness in his question. For one thing, he has already been saved, saved from the system of domination in which he was enmeshed and implicated. He has been saved, in the language of the New Testament, he has been restored to wholeness; to use our language he has regained his dignity and his humanity.

What must we do to be saved? This question and the conventional contemporary answer—accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior have lost the rich dimensions they had in the first century. Salvation was not just personal or spiritual—salvation literally meant wholeness, wellness of body and soul. But it extended far beyond the individual person, to encompass the community, society, all of creation.

What must we do to be saved? Where do we experience brokenness or illness? In our bodies, in our relationships, in society? Where do our systems, our personal addictions or sin, rob us of our humanity and dignity, just as the Roman system robbed the jailer and the slave girls of theirs and tried to rob Paul and Silas of theirs?

What must we do to be saved? In the midst of their suffering, as they dealt with the pain of torture, as they experienced the raw power of the Roman state, Paul and Silas sang hymns and praised God. They refused to submit to that Roman power and God’s power came into that dark prison, freeing them and the jailer from the system that sought to crush them. As they worshiped, as they ate together, they shared the new life of Christ; they experienced the power of God to transform lives and the world. May we do the same. May our worship, our common life, our coming together at the Eucharistic feast, bear witness to the work of God that transforms the world and restores broken hearts and bodies. May our worship and our common life restore our hearts, bodies, and souls, and restore the lives of those we encounter.

A Place of Prayer: A Sermon for Easter 6C, 2025

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6 Easter

May 25, 2025

The next few months are going to be interesting ones at Grace. We already see signs of that, with the fencing erected around the perimeter of the nave. In the coming days, scaffolding will be erected on the courtyard and Carroll St. sides and our lovely stained glass windows will be boarded up. 

It’s the second time in the last decade that we’ve seen major construction here at Grace. The last time, in 2015, we embarked on a major project to renovate our spaces, to open them up and make them more inviting to newcomers and the community. There was a great deal of excitement about what those renovations would lead to. And they did bring increased attendance, vitality, and energy to the place.

This time, we’re doing something we have to do. As stewards of this historic property, it’s our duty to preserve it for future generations, to carry on the legacy with which we have been entrusted. And what we do should ensure Grace’s continued presence well into the future, if all goes as planned, for another century. 

We don’t know what the future holds; what Madison might look like a century from now, but that’s nothing new. I doubt the people who built this church had any idea what life, Madison, the church would like 170 years later. We’ve seen enormous change over that time, beginning with the Civil War, and we’re seeing unprecedented, unimaginable change today. We might even wonder whether spending so much money to preserve an old church is worth it, whether it’s a wise use of our limited resources. 

It’s striking that we are presented with these texts on which to reflect at this time in our common life and the life of our parish.

Our reading from Acts comes at a pivotal moment in the narrative. Paul has been traveling through Asia Minor, what is now Turkey, visiting Hellenistic cities and the Jewish communities that lived in them. He has preached the good news of Jesus Christ, met with success, and faced some challenges. Now, he has a vision and decides to go to Macedonia. Macedonia lies north of Greece. It was the home of Alexander the Great who created the huge empire that stretched from Greece and Egypt to the Indus River and Central Asia. It is on the continent of Europe but the divide between Europe and Asia may seem larger today than it did in the first century. Both were part of the Roman Empire and both were part of the same large cultural constellation of the Hellenistic age. So whether Paul understood himself to be breaking new ground as he passed into Macedonia, whether Luke meant to stress that transition, is not certain.

Philippi was actually named for Alexander the Great’s father, Philip. It was a Roman colony, settled by retired Roman soldiers whose service was rewarded with grants of property. Its citizens were accorded the full rights of citizenship, and it was a sort of model of Roman culture, political, and religious life in the region. Lydia the seller of purple, is not a native of Philippi but of a city in Asia Minor. Whether she traveled as part of her business or settled in Philippi is unknowable. But she trades in expensive items, purple is a color reserved for the aristocracy, so it’s likely she herself is a woman of means.

Luke tells us that on the Sabbath, Paul and his companions go outside the city to a place of prayer by the river. What’s meant is a gathering place for Philippi’s Jews, perhaps even a synagogue. Lydia is there because she, like Cornelius before her, is a God-Fearer, someone who is attracted to Judaism but hasn’t converted. It’s worth pointing out that we know—fro Acts as well as non-biblical sources, that Judaism appealed to many in th Roman Empire because of its monotheism and its high ethical and moral standards. 

Paul and his companions sit down with the women who are gathered there and speak with them. Lydia is moved by God; Paul baptizes her and her household, and stays with her several days. From later references, it’s likely that Lydia’s home became a gathering place for followers of Jesus, and a house church.

I’m fascinated by the contrast between this briefstory in Acts and the vision of the New Jerusalem we heard from Revelation: The New Jerusalem comes down from heaven: “I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb.” 

Presumably, there were many temples in Philippi—the usual array of temples to the Roman deities but likely also temples to various local deities and some for cults imported from Asia Minor or Egypt, like Isis. We don’t know whether the place of prayer mentioned in Acts was a formal synagogue. Whether it was or not, it was outside the city walls. Paul met faithful Jews there as well as God-Fearers like Lydia. That encounter led to the beginning of a Christian community in Philippi, one to which Paul would later write a letter in which he expressed his deep affection for it.

Paul preached, but it was God who opened Lydia’s heart, and Lydia who opened her home to this new community. She offered Paul and his companions hospitality now and a few days later as well. It took all of that, Paul’s courage and preaching, God’s work, and Lydia’s leadership to create this new community in Philippi.

All of the geographical allusions are suggestive of larger significance. As I said, I don’t think we should make too much of the shift from Asia Minor to Europe. Lydia may be Paul’s first convert on the continent of Europe, but she’s a native of a town in Asia Minor, so she’s a foreigner of sorts in Philippi, a marginal figure. She’s a marginal figure in the Jewish community as well, as a God-Fearer and not a full member. Her conversion itself takes place on the margins, outside the city gates. How welcome was she in any of those spaces—in Philippi, at the place of prayer, in the Jewish community?

But when God opened her heart, she also welcomed the Good News of Jesus Christ and would welcome Paul into her home—both now and later when he left prison. And through her hospitality her household became the household of God in Philippi, welcoming all those who heard the Good News and embraced the gospel.

The New Jerusalem, the heavenly city that comes down in John the Divine’s vision. Like Philippi, it was surrounded by walls. Unlike Philippi, its gates were never shut. It is a holy city, the whole of it God’s dwelling place.

That vision seems far from reality in our world today. A city in which all are safe and thrive, a city where the worship of God is at its very heart, a city that doesn’t fear those who come to it, a city where all are welcome. None of that seems possible today, or even plausible. Even though Grace stands at the very center of Madison, what we do hear is quite peripheral to the lives of most of Madison’s residents. There’s no clearer symbol of that disconnect than the contrast between the numbers present at our services today, and the thousands who were on the square earlier this morning for the start of the half-marathon.

But think of that little group of people who gathered in Lydia’s home in Philippi—filled with the Holy Spirit, energized to share the good news, to be the community that God had called them to be through Jesus Christ, welcoming strangers, offering hospitality. In their small way, they were bringing into being the vision John saw. In their small way, the food and drink they offered was for the healing of the nations.

May that vision of the New Jerusalem, may the vision of Lydia’s little house-church become our vision, and our reality. May we, through our common life, our hospitality, our sharing of the good news, may we offer healing to the nations, and healing to this city.

Bearing Witness to the Cross: A Sermon for Good Friday, 2025

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Good Friday

April 18, 2025

Good Friday is an emotional, complicated day. We are drawn into the story of Christ’s suffering, his torture and execution, and we are invited to enter into that story, to approach and experience it through hymns and devotions that have developed over the centuries. Some of those devotions can threaten to overwhelm us; some may repel us. But each of us in our own way is touched, moved, affected by it all.

We gather at a time when many of us are feeling other emotions: anger, fear, despair, as we watch events unfold around us, see the acts of domination and oppression that run roughshod over civic, legal, and moral norms. We may want to leave that cacophony outside on the streets but it invades our thoughts, troubles our hearts, and disrupts our sleep.

We feel impotence alongside all of our other emotions—impotence in the face of yet another mass shooting, impotence in the face of unjust deportations, the dismantling of the institutions that are supposed to protect all of us, and especially the most vulnerable, impotence as we watch the attacks on free speech, higher education, and all the rest, and the reluctance of those with power and influence to stand up against the onslaught.

Then we enter this service and encounter additional challenges. Our liturgy, and especially the gospel reading for today confronts us with one of the profound challenges for Christian faith in the contemporary world. The deep, persistent, ugly anti-Judaism of the Gospel of John is on full display in the passion narrative—the relentless repetition of “The Jews” in the gospel’s depiction of those who were opposed to Jesus and sought his death has had lasting consequences throughout history, in the Antisemitism that has persisted and led to ongoing acts of violence including the Holocaust. 

We are also all too aware of the weaponization of Antisemitism to quash dissent and free speech. At the same time, even on this most holy day of the Christian year, we are conscious of all the ways in which Christian imagery and faith have contributed to the marginalization and oppression of others. The power of Christian nationalism and white supremacy looms over the cross and all that we do here today.

Our liturgy today attempts to mitigate some of that damage. We are using an alternative liturgy approved by General Convention last year that attempts to undo some of the anti-Judaism of the language in the authorized Book of Common Prayer. The gospel we heard is an adaptation of John, rewording it to complicate the opponents of Jesus in the gospel—not just “the Jews” now but Jewish leaders, or parties within first century Judaism. It’s a start but perhaps seems either too little too late, or a futile attempt to stem the tide of Antisemitism and weaponized Antisemitism that threaten to overwhelm us all.

Given all that, given where we are today as we observe Good Friday, how might we find solace and strength in our liturgy to help make sense of our world, our lives, and inspire the courage to persist in our efforts to be faithful Christians? One possible answer to that question may lie in the example of Pilate. Known historically as a ruthless, even bloodthirsty tyrant, in the Gospels he is depicted as an unwilling and unwitting accomplice. John suggests Pilate knows Jesus is innocent of the charges levelled against him but seems impotent to resist the machinations and insistence of Jesus’ opponents. In the gospel of Matthew, we’re given the image of Pilate washing his hands and declaring his innocence of Jesus’ blood in front of the card, an image that has entered popular consciousness. This image of the feckless, spineless politician is one that seems to resonate today as too many of our leaders stand by haplessly as lawlessness and evil thrive.

While naming the Pilates among may offer us some consolation and schadenfreude, there are other ways of connecting the story we heard with the lives we are living today. As Jesus’ followers, we are called to follow him. In John’s telling, unlike the synoptic gospel accounts where Jesus is abandoned by his disciples on his last journey, the disciples accompany Jesus along the way. Peter still betrays Jesus but we’re told that the beloved disciple—I’ll leave them unnamed as in the gospel, is able to go with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest. 

At the cross, the Beloved Disciple and Jesus’ mother Mary stand by watching and bearing witness, and other disciples, secret ones, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus are responsible for Jesus’ burial. Being present, bearing witness, these are important responsibilities. It may be that not all of us can take action, and the actions we can take may seem futile. But we can pay attention, bear witness, remember so that the voices of the vulnerable and suffering are amplified. In the gospel of Luke, we’re told that the women—the disciples—who followed Jesus from Galilee and ministered to him along the way, stood far off from the cross and watched and remembered.

To remember, to bear witness, to be present. As we contemplate the events of Good Friday, we see a deep and powerful paradox. On the one hand, we see the power of the Roman Empire bringing itself to bear on a lonely, humble teacher from Galilee who dared to challenge its power and might. On the other hand, we see Christ giving of himself for our lives and the life of the world. We see Christ, loving the world so much that he gives of himself, gives his life for us and in that giving shows us the power of love. 

We see Christ suffering and in his suffering we know he stands and suffers with all those today who are suffering—immigrants who have been deported for no reason, victims languishing in camps and prisons. He is present in the rubble of Gaza and Ukraine, on the streets of our cities. He is with us in our own lives, in our fears and despair. As we ponder the events of Good Friday today may we find in Christ, in the cross, love’s power to strengthen us to be present in a suffering world and to bear witness to the oppression and violence that surround us, and to minister to those in need. May we find in the cross the love we need to carry on.

Being loved, and loving, to the end: A Homily for Maundy Thursday, 2025

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April 17, 2025

A memory has been running through my mind these last few days as I’ve thought about Maundy Thursday. I grew up Mennonite, which was then, and likely remains a profoundly non-liturgical tradition. When I was a member, we celebrated communion only twice a year but our observance of communion always included footwashing. It was a ritual central to Mennonite identity in that era; so central in fact that one of the Mennonite colleges had as its logo an image of a basin and towel. The idea of service to others, Jesus’ commandment to imitate his actions, and to love others as he loved his disciples, were core values among Mennonites during the 50s and 60s. 

But what I’ve been thinking about is not the act of footwashing itself, as practiced among the Mennonites of my childhood. Rather, I’ve been remembering other aspects of the ritual, specifically the fact that our footwashing was accompanied by hymns. I recall my dad, who was a musician and often led music in the church, leading out in hymns as we watched each other’s feet,–although they were sung from memory and without accompaniment by musical instrument. Truth be told, while I vividly remember singing, I cannot for the life of me remember the specific hymns we sang.

Perhaps the reason I’ve been reminded of that memory is because it is the one thing that our service tonight shares with the traditions of my childhood, even though our singing during footwashing had been planned in advance and will be accompanied by the organ, thankfully.

 Footwashing is an intimate, deeply moving, powerful ritual and for us on Maundy Thursday, it is only one of several such powerful moments in our liturgy. I remember also the first Episcopal Maundy Thursday service I attended, and the wave of emotion that overcame me as I watched for the first time in my life the Stripping of the Altar. It evokes in so many ways the stripping of a body, of Christ’s body, for burial, and as I cleanse the altar later this evening, in near darkness, my gestures will  mimic the scourging that Jesus suffered at the hands of his persecutors and executioners.

Our watching is accompanied by growing apprehension as the ritual acts remind us of the events that follow. Some of them we will remember viscerally as our bodies move through traces of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the tomb. As we move, our emotions build—the grief and despair, the guilt and shame. Our daily lives seem to be suspended, interrupted, as our attention focuses on the drama of Christ’s passion. But even as we know what tomorrow brings—Good Friday and crucifixion, let us linger for another moment or two, here on Maundy Thursday and with the Last Supper.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” This brief sentence, the beginning of our gospel reading tonight, is an introduction not just to the events that follow immediately—the last supper and footwashing, but to everything else that we commemorate in the coming days, Christ’s arrest and trial, his execution and death, and yes, his resurrection. All of that, all of what will happen, what we dread will happen, is an expression of Christ’s love for his disciples and for us. But while we may want to move on to the bigger parts of the story; it all begins here. Friends gathered around a table, and a humble, intimate act of footwashing.

We see Peter’s response—his revulsion and unwillingness to allow Jesus to serve him in this way, to kneel before him. Less obvious from the text we heard, the footwashing takes place before Judas’ departure. So Jesus knelt down before the one who would betray him as he knelt before the other disciples. Perhaps that’s the most radical, least imaginable moment in the whole story. 

It’s a shocking act—in the first century as in the twenty-first. Peter’s response to it might be the same as ours, to imagine our teacher, our leader, the Son of God, kneeling down girding himself with a towel, and washing our feet. It makes us uncomfortable to do it ourselves, unaccustomed as we are to such acts of intimate service. Yet all around us people do such things—take intimate care of their loved ones who are unable to care for themselves. And many others do it for people they don’t love—because it’s their job, often ill-paid, thankless. 

But Jesus joins them in their labor and toil, washing the dust and dirt from the feet of his friends—an intimate, revolutionary act that presages everything else to come, and demonstrates, wordlessly, what it means to love his own to the end. It’s a concrete demonstration of his self-giving love; the emptying himself of his identity to become the lowest of servants, performing menial tasks, unworthy of a king, let alone of a God.

In our world, where power and dominance are demonstrated in acts large and small, forcing submission, demanding obedience, where bullying is the norm, for Jesus to fall to his knees in humility and service, upends our assumptions and shatters our expectations.

But more than that, Jesus invites us to join him on our knees, in service and love to others. This act of humble service combined with the meal at which it takes place, is the constitutive act of a new beloved community brought together in shared commitment to following Jesus. Forged by love, shaped by love, the community gathered at table together, shares in Christ’s body and blood, becomes Christ’s body, knit together by love. 

In these days of turmoil and suffering, as we watch our nation and world collapse, and we lose our moorings in the rubble and chaos of institutions and ideals, the acts we remember tonight, the rituals tonight bind us together with Christ in that new community. And what we do here may serve as example and witness to our neighbors and to the world—evidence of a faith in a Christ who comes as one to love and serve in humility, not to dominate and oppress. 

Protests and Palms: A Sermon for Palm Sunday, 2025

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I had to laugh when our procession came across the corner from W. Washington to N. Carroll before entering the church and we were confronted by the people on the capitol steps with their music and shouting. So fitting a reminder for our ministry on Capitol Square that whatever we do in worship and outreach, it is shaped by the context in which we find ourselves.

We know a thing or two about protests around here, don’t we? There have been the big ones—last Saturday, which many of you attended; others in the past like the women’s march in 2017 or the Black Lives Matter protests in the wake of the George Floyd murder. There were others, too many to enumerate, beginning with the Act 10 protests in 2011, which seems so long ago. And unlike the description of the protest given us by Luke, at the Act 10 protests there were at least palms, in the form of inflatable palm trees. 

There have been many others throughout the years, many of them quite small; a handful or so of demonstrators, or even occasionally, a single demonstrator, like the guy who walks around the square regularly shouting at Governor Evers. 

We don’t often associate protests with scripture—they probably seem a very contemporary thing—a product of activists like Gandhi or MLK jr who were able to gather thousands or hundreds of thousands, and in Gandhi’s case, bring an empire to its knees. 

And we certainly don’t imagine that the event we recreated this morning, traditionally called the Triumphal Entry, had anything to do with a political demonstration. But in the context of first century Judaism and of biblical tradition, what Jesus and his followers did that day was profoundly political. The reference to the prophet Zephaniah makes it clear: Jesus was connecting himself with the long-hoped for idea of the restoration of the Davidic monarchy. And that’s hardly an innocuous act in the days leading up to Passover, in a city crowded with pilgrims and with Roman soldiers present to keep violence at bay.

In case you’re still skeptical of the implications of all this, the next two things Jesus did was to pause, overlooking the city and predict its destruction. Then he entered the temple where he staged another demonstration, overturning the tables of the money-changers. Is it any wonder the Roman authorities were keen to get their hands on him? We see the very same impulses at work today—the silencing of protestors, the punishment of outspoken political opponents.

The story continues of course. We heard the passion of Christ according to the Gospel of Luke. All four gospels are eager to deflect our attention away from the confrontation between Jesus and Rome and for us to focus on the participation of the Jewish authorities in Jesus’ arrest and execution. That’s hardly surprising—what member of a tiny new religious movement at the turn of the second century would want to celebrate as their founder and the son of God, someone who was executed by the Roman Empire? But Luke goes a step further by inserting an episode in Jesus’ trial in which he appears before Herod Antipas. Herod seems to see Jesus as a comic diversion. Luke suggests he was curious about him, and the episode concludes with Herod and Pilate becoming friends, tyranny and empire consolidating their power.

But the story we heard, the story Christians have told for two thousand years is not just about a political protest, a revolutionary executed by the Roman empire. As important as that is, the story of resistance to evil and oppression, the story of Jesus is much more than that. We see the gospel writers interpreting it to give it cosmic significance, ultimate meaning for us in the twenty-first century as well as for his friends in the first. 

Two things stand out in Luke’s understanding of the meaning of the cross. First of all, Jesus’ words to the soldiers who crucified him: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Second, the interchange between Jesus and the two thieves, one of whom pleaded: “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And finally, the words of the centurion as Jesus died: “Truly, this man was innocent.”

Luke wants us to see Jesus as the innocent victim, whose death imparts forgiveness of sins to those who believe in him. It’s a powerful message that has resonated throughout the centuries down to our own time. Our hymnody, a millennium of Christian devotional practice and reflection lead us to that point; even our Lenten experiences. We recognize our sinfulness, we ask for forgiveness, we see Jesus’ death as a result of our own sins, and a way of unburdening us of those sins. As powerful as that imagery and devotion may be, as deeply moving as it may be for our own personal situations, there are other ways of seeing the cross, equally powerful and transformative.

In the reading from the letter to the Philippians, for example, Paul articulates a rather different understanding. Paul is likely quoting a hymn that Christians were already singing in worship, a hymn that reflects early understandings of Jesus’ death and resurrection. And here there is nothing of sacrifice, or sins, or guilt, or punishment. 

Instead, what Paul and those other early Christians emphasized was Christ’s self-giving and obedience: 

“Who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but humbled himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on the cross.”

In the cross, we encounter God—not an angry or vindictive judge, but a God who emptied himself for us. In the cross, we encounter the self-giving God who became one of us, to show us the fullness of humanity, to remake us in God’s image. In the cross, we encounter God’s love.

As we journey through Holy Week this week, as we walk with Jesus through the streets of Jerusalem, to the last supper, to Gethsemane, to Pilate’s chambers and finally to Golgotha, may each step be an opportunity to experience God’s love in Jesus Christ. May this week be a journey into the heart of God’s love.

Reckoning with Evil: A Sermon for 3LentC, 2025

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3 Lent

March 23, 2025

We all do it. We see someone’s suffering, perhaps even our own, and wonder, “What did I do to deserve that?” We might ask, “Why is God punishing me?” when diagnosed with cancer, or some other random misfortune befalls us. We might ask ourselves when we see someone in poverty, or unhoused, what decisions they made earlier in life that brought them to this point. It’s human; it’s natural. We want misfortune, suffering to have meaning, and so we look for reasons, or assign blame. Since the first humans began to think reflectively, we have wondered about the origin of evil or suffering, and we have developed intricate explanatory systems—religion not the least of them, to help us negotiate, make sense of, and respond to them.

Such questions bring us to the heart of today’s gospel reading, several enigmatic and perhaps unrelated sayings attributed to Jesus and brought together in this place by Luke. Jesus references two apparently somewhat contemporary events. In the first, Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea who had executed some Galileans while they were making sacrifices; or to put in imagery we might understand, people killed while seeking refuge from bombing in a church. The second example might be even stranger. The tower of Siloam falls and kills 18 people who were unlucky enough to be in the vicinity when the tower came down.

Jesus uses these two stories to make a point. He asks his listeners if these people deserved to die, if they were any more sinful than anyone else in Jerusalem. And then he lays down a warning, “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

Philosophers distinguish between natural evil and moral evil. Natural evil is the evil or suffering that comes about through natural disaster—tsunamis, earthquakes, and the like. Moral evil is evil that is a result of human action—the holocaust. These two examples of Jesus encompass both types of evil—a random accident, and a crime perpetrated by someone. In either case, our very human tendency is to assign blame. We want to place suffering in a context that makes sense of it, and that makes it conform to our view of the world.

 Jesus here reminds his listeners that there is plenty of blame to go around. The fact that some people were killed when the tower of Siloam collapsed didn’t mean that they were any more sinful than anyone else in Jerusalem.

But the reading doesn’t end there. After this word of warning, Jesus tells a parable about a fig tree. This story seems to be another version of a story in Mark and Matthew. There Jesus comes to a fig tree, looking for fruit but finds none. In fact, Mark observes, it wasn’t fig season. But Jesus curses the tree, and the next day, as they walk by it again, the disciples notice that it has shriveled up. In Luke’s version, it is a parable in which a landowner comes looking for figs, as he has in the two preceding years. But the fig tree is barren, so the landowner tells the gardener to pull it out. But the gardener objects, suggesting instead that they fertilize it and wait to see what happens the next year.

What are we to make of that? Well, if Luke is really reworking the story from Mark, then we see him turning a message of doom into a message of hope. The message from the death of the Galileans and the victims of the Tower of Siloam was loud and clear: “Repent or perish.” But with the fig tree, another message comes forward: “Let’s nurture the tree and see what happens next year. Perhaps we’ll get a crop of figs then.”

Waiting may be an option when it’s a fig tree, but waiting seems irresponsible when the lives of thousands are at stake. The reading from Exodus offers a different perspective on this dynamic. 

Moses, a Hebrew child  was spared genocide when his mother put him in a reed basket in the Nile.  He was found and raised by Pharaoh’s daughter. As a young adult, he came across an Egyptian whipping a Hebrew slave. Moses killed him and fled Egypt, ending up in the land of Midian, where we encounter him in our story.

And he encounters God. Tending sheep on God’s mountain, Mt. Horeb, also known as Mt. Sinai, Moses sees a bush that is on fire but is not consumed by the fire. When he goes to investigate, he hears the voice of God speaking to him, revealing Godself to him, calling him to be a messenger and prophet of God. There is much to contemplate here; the theophany itself, the revelation of God’s name, Moses’ call, but for our purposes, what matters is something God says to Moses:

“I have observed the misery of my people;

“I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters;

“Indeed, I know their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians….”

The God who appears to Moses in a burning bush is a God who hears the cries of the oppressed and suffering, and delivers them from their distress. But, and this is the important thing, while sometimes that deliverance involves miracle or supernatural power; other times, most times, perhaps, that deliverance makes use of flawed and weak individuals and communities. 

In response to God’s statement that Moses will be the means of the Hebrews’ escape from bondage, Moses asks, “Why me? Who am I?” Later he will claim that he lacks a good speaking voice and so God will bring Moses’ brother Aaron alongside as an assistant and spokesperson.

The point is this. We see evil, suffering, oppression, all around us—in the racism of our society and especially our criminal justice system; in the plight of refugees, immigrants, and asylum seekers on our borders and throughout the country. We see evil especially in the wars that continue to rage, not just in Ukraine.. We see this suffering. It may turn our stomachs, bring tears to our eyes. The images may open our wallets as we donate to the humanitarian efforts. We may even know people who dropped everything and are now involved directly in helping those who are suffering, people who have opened their hearts, and their homes.

In light of the magnitude of the suffering and oppression, such efforts may seem of little value, a drop in the bucket. But just as God sent Christ into the world, into the middle of humanity’s messy life, full of pain and suffering, God calls us into those places of suffering and oppression; to be present there as God is present; sometimes with selfless acts of heroism. Other times, we are called to fertilize and tend an unproductive fig tree, hoping and waiting that in seasons to come it will bear fruit.

My friends, in these challenging and heartbreaking times, our faith may falter; we may wonder whether God is still at work in the world. We may wonder whether the forces of justice and truth can overcome the hatred, lies, and oppression that surround us. But God hears the cries of the oppressed, just as we do, and God is working to deliver them, through our prayers and our actions. In these dark times, may we pray, and hope, and wait, and work for justice and for peace.

Go Tell that Fox! A Sermon for 2 LentC, 2025

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Apparently, I neglected to post this last week…

March 16, 2025

One late November afternoon a couple of years ago, as the shadows were lengthening, I was taking a walk on the southwest bike path. I looked ahead and saw a man and his son standing still, watching something. I stopped and asked what was going on. The man pointed; there was a fox in someone’s backyard, trying to figure out how to get into a chicken coop. Eventually, the dad took matters into his own hands, possibly because he wanted to shield his young son from seeing the mayhem that could take place.  He climbed down the bank, entered the yard, and chased the fox away. The hens were safe, at least for now.

It’s one of those cultural tropes we all know: foxes and henhouses, common to cartoons, stories, and fables, and even the teachings of Jesus. It’s startling though, to encounter it in real life, even if in the back of our minds, we know that there are lots of foxes around here—I’ve even seen one in front of the church—and there are lots of hens. Yet it’s startling to encounter the image in scripture.

Luke has done something quite interesting with these sayings. In Matthew, they appear much later in the story, when Jesus is teaching in the temple in Jerusalem in the last week of his life. Luke places them much earlier. Jesus and his disciples are on the way to Jerusalem, but they won’t get there for quite some time. Herod (Antipas) the Son of Herod the Great has already appeared in Luke’s gospel—he arrested John the Baptist just before Jesus began his public ministry. Although Luke doesn’t mention John’s death in his gospel, it is assumed.

 We’re actually jumping around a bit in our reading of Luke. For the past several weeks, our texts have come from relatively early in the gospel. Last week we read the story of Jesus’ temptation, which takes place just before Jesus begins his public ministry. Today’s reading comes from Luke 13, and it’s important to note that it comes from a lengthy section—chapters 9-19, that Luke places is the context of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. It’s also important to note that Luke has moved one of these sayings, Jesus’ lament for Jerusalem. In Matthew, Jesus says this in the last week of his life, while he is in Jerusalem, and in fact, while he is in the temple.

So, Luke removes these sayings chronologically and temporally from Jerusalem and the cross, but even here, with perhaps months or weeks to go before Calvary, the crucifixion suddenly impinges on Jesus’ activity. Pharisees come to Jesus to warn him that Herod wants to kill him. That in itself may seem surprising. We’re programmed by two thousand years of history to assume Jesus and the Pharisees were opposed to each other but remember both wanted to take Torah seriously, to offer ordinary people ways of being faithful in the world.

Jesus calls Herod Antipas a fox. There’s a double edge to this epithet. We tend to associate foxes with slyness or craftiness, so there’s a sense in which Jesus may be offering Herod a compliment. After all, it takes tact, and wiliness to succeed in an imperial system like Rome. At any moment, the caprice of the ruler may turn on you, and survival requires being very adept at maneuvering. But at the same time, foxes are predators, preying on the weak and vulnerable, taking advantage of every weakness in an opponent, or potential meal.

But even if Herod is a fox, a threat, Jesus seems to be saying that he will go about his work—casting out demons and healing people. He won’t be distracted from his ministry by Herod’s machinations. 

There’s a full range of emotions on display in these few verses. Jesus expresses courage in his refusal to turn away from the threat; he shows his sense of purpose in continuing to go about the business of his daily ministry. He is resolute about his fate, as he reminds them that he is on his way to Jerusalem, and that he knows that like other prophets, he will be killed there. Holy Week and the cross loom very large. The sequence of days is mentioned; and Jesus alludes to the triumphal entry—Palm Sunday. 

 In spite of all that, knowing what is to come; how he’ll be treated not only by the authorities but by the people of Jerusalem, he expresses deep love and concern for the city to which he is travelling. The tenderness with which he speaks, comparing himself to a mother hen protecting her chicks, is a world away from the defiance with which the passage begins. 

There’s something else worth pointing out. Jesus and Herod would have a final confrontation, in Jerusalem, in Holy Week. In an episode unique to Luke’s gospel, it would be Herod who would have Jesus dressed in purple, royal garb. Intended as mockery, the incident lays bare the different kinds of authority wielded by Jesus and Herod. Herod relied on force to maintain power; exploiting the weak, and punishing those, like John the Baptist, that he perceived as threats. On the other hand, Jesus’ power was and is a power based in love and vulnerability, like the care of a mother hen for her chicks; the love of the crucified one.

These alternative models may seem as relevant today as they were two thousand years ago. We see Jesus weeping for Jerusalem, here, and again, only in Luke, when he enters Jerusalem in the final days of his life. Luke’s readers would have known all too well what would happen to do Jerusalem; defeated and destroyed, laying in ruins, its riches and bounty carried back to Rome to demonstrate Rome’s power and the fate of those who opposed it. 

We see those alternative models of power and authority on display in our world today, and much closer to home. The power of greed, the lust for domination, the demands for utter fealty fill our media and stoke our fears and nightmares. We see institutions and individuals submitting meekly and without protest, passively watching as victims suffer and rights are trampled. And we feel helpless, impotent.

But Jesus wept for Jerusalem, he lamented that he wished he could gather its residents like a hen gathers her chicks. It’s hardly an act of defiance, or one that would make a difference in the long run. But his example, an example of self-giving, sacrificial love, poured out on the cross, leads to God’s victory over evil and death. It is our hope, our faith that God’s love prevails, and that our own small acts of love, weeping for victims, protecting the vulnerable, bearing witness to Christ, do make a difference. They are signs and acts of love that bind us to and in God’s love, confronting and breaking the powers of evil and death, and building blocks of God’s coming reign.