YEAR C 2025 ash wednesday

Ash Wednesday, 2025
Joel 2:1-2,12-17
Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I think we can all agree that it is jarring to have this particular gospel reading on this particular day every year.  On Ash Wednesday, we always hear Jesus tell us not to practice our piety before others.  We hear that we should pray in private.  Going out in public we should wash our faces and not let anyone know that we are fasting.

And then, one by one, we come to God’s altar to have ashes put on our foreheads before going out into the world, which announces to everyone we meet that we have been to church.  We have let our left hand know what our right hand is doing.  There’s a huge disconnect here, and I have to admit that it really bothers me every year.

However, there is some thing else that I want to draw our attention to today.  Because there is something else going on underneath that smudge of ash on your forehead.

When you were baptized, and when you were confirmed, and when you are sick, and—yes—when you are on your deathbed, a bishop or priest uses holy oil to make the sign of the cross on your forehead.  At baptism—the start of our Christian journey—when we make that sign with holy oil, we say the words, “you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked as Christ’s own forever.

This means no matter what else gets put on your forehead, this promise remains underneath it.  The slings and arrows of living in this broken world, the pain and disconnect from our friends and family, the agony of watching those we love die, and the heartache of relationships that fall apart, we wear these scars as testament that we have lived.  You could say that these things disfigure our faces, to use the words of Jesus.

And on top of all that, we then come to church on Ash Wednesday where we are each individually reminded that we are going to die.  Welcome to church.  Glad you’re here.  You’re going to die.  On the surface, it doesn’t seem very reassuring, I have to admit.

But then we need to remember something.  Underneath those ashes, underneath the scars from all the slings and arrows of this world, there’s something else.  Because underneath the cross of ashes lies another cross.  A cross made with holy oil, blessed by a bishop, inscribed on your forehead along with the words:

“You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked forever.

Yes, life can be hard.  And yes, we will all one day die.  But death has no power over us, because Jesus has promised us that where he goes, we too will go.  Because we are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.  Forever.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 last epiphany

Last Epiphany, 2025
Exodus 34:29-35
Psalm 99
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
Luke 9:28-36

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

This story we just heard is what we church people call “The Transfiguration of Jesus.”  And, of course, that’s why we sometimes mistakenly call today “Transfiguration Sunday.”  But in the Episcopal Church, Transfiguration Sunday actually happens in August for us.  But today is the last Sunday in the season of Epiphany.  Always the last Sunday before Ash Wednesday.  Our last chance to proclaim Alleluia, before we bury that word for Lent.

The church year started with the Incarnation at Christmas, where we could say the Divine joined with humanity.  And today, with this Transfiguration, we could say that humanity joins the Divine.  At Christmas, the Son of God takes human form to walk among us.  In the Transfiguration, the earthly Jesus talks with two great heavenly figures.  

In today’s reading, then, heaven and earth are joined in the reverse fashion of Christmas.  In a way, it completes the cycle.  But, as it turns out, the real story is only about to begin.  Everything from the shepherds watching their flocks by night right up until today is just prologue for the main event.
In Luke’s Gospel, this mountaintop Transfiguration experience is set up as the beginning . . . of the end.  Jesus is about to “set his face toward Jerusalem.”  And Jerusalem is the focal point of Luke’s Gospel. 

Every important event in Luke happens in Jerusalem, and specifically in the Temple there.  In a sense, this story of the Transfiguration of Jesus is when Luke’s Gospel is about to take off.  The nine chapters that come before today’s reading are like the introduction in Luke, just background: getting us ready for the whole point of the story, where we will walk with Jesus toward Jerusalem, and toward his death at the hands of his enemies . . . which would be . . . us.  But that’s getting ahead of ourselves.  Let’s go back to the mountain . . .

Okay, so Jesus has taken Peter, James, and John, and climbed up the mountain.  It’s hard to miss the connection to our Old Testament reading, with Moses coming down from Mount Sinai with his face glowing from being in the presence of God.  Now, as we heard, the disciples saw Jesus talking to Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory.  Both Moses and Elijah have been on mountains to receive divine revelations, so there’s an echo there.  Both Moses and Elijah were taken up into heaven at the end of their lives.  So . . . both Moses and Elijah have seen God face to face.  

The connection is profound and mysterious.  Exactly who is revealing what to whom here?  I think our immediate tendency is to view Moses and Elijah as giving Jesus some kind of pep talk before he heads toward Jerusalem.  But it’s just as plausible to view it the other way around—as Jesus giving them an explanation of what he is about to do, reassuring them of the necessary plan.  The way it gets translated in our version is that “they were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.” 

The chosen word “departure” here is kind of unfortunate, since the Greek word is exodus, and that seems a little more fitting.  “Departure” to our modern ears sounds a bit like Jesus is going on a trip: like Moses and Elijah are taking him to the airport.  On the other hand, because of our experience with the Israelites’ escape from Egypt, the term “exodus” has more of a sense of being called out, of being led out of bondage, of heading for bigger things.  Jesus is going to Jerusalem to accomplish his exodus.  So what is Jesus’ exodus?

Well, just before today’s reading, Jesus tells the disciples he must undergo great suffering and be rejected and killed.  And then, he says, if any want to become his followers, “they must take up their cross daily and follow me.”  That’s the set-up for today’s reading.  The set-up for telling us what Luke means by the exodus of Jesus.  The way of salvation is to Jerusalem, which leads directly to the cross.  The way “out” is through the cross.  Jesus will not bypass the cross, and neither can we.  Even in this moment of shining glory, Jesus is talking about the cross.

Peter wants to build houses for the three of them, most likely because of the Jewish Festival of Booths.  Peter was thinking the story was over.  The Messianic Age had arrived, and so it’s time to build the permanent monuments of rest from which Jesus will rule.  But, as we’ve already said, this is the beginning of the story, not the end.

But, again, the point here is that Peter totally misunderstands.  And, keep in mind, this is just ten verses after Peter has clearly identified Jesus as the Messiah.  Peter is committed, and Peter understands.  But Peter will deny Jesus, and Peter does not understand.  And I think it is safe to say, we are all more like Peter than we care to admit.  We rightly call Jesus Lord, and, yet, we will also deny knowing him.  We fully understand, and yet we are totally clueless.

But I skipped over the voice from heaven.  You’ll recall there was a loud voice from heaven saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him.”  That might sound kind of familiar to you from a few weeks ago, when we observed the Baptism of Jesus.  In that case (back in Luke 3:22), there was a voice from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  But, do you notice the difference between the two?  The first voice, at Jesus’ baptism, was directed to him.  God the Father, speaking to the Son.  (You are my Son.)  And today, here on the mountain, God the Father is speaking to the disciples, about the Son.  (This is my Son.)  So, the question is, what has happened in between these two cases of the Father speaking?

The answer is Epiphany.  And now you’re thinking, was that a trick question?  Well, I guess it was, a little anyway.  In between Jesus’ baptism and Transfiguration, we have been in this season of Epiphany, the time when Jesus goes from simply being here, to being announced to the nations.  At his baptism, the Father speaks to the Son and tells him who He is.  And in today’s reading, the Father speaks to the disciples, and tells us who Jesus is.  If the season of Epiphany is the birth announcement, then the Transfiguration is the Bar Mitzvah, or maybe confirmation.  This Transfiguration is when Jesus’ identity is announced.  We now know who he is: The Son, the Chosen, the one we should listen to.

But before that, when Peter gets the bright idea to build booths for all of them, you can see he regrets saying it, even as the words come out of his mouth.  Let us build booths, one for Moses, one for Elijah, and one for you, “not knowing what he said.”  Not knowing what he said.  In other words, not thinking before he spoke, right?  He just blurts it out, and probably wishes he hadn’t, even as the words are coming out of his mouth.  

After he suggests the building project, a cloud descends on them, the voice from heaven speaks.  And, “when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.  And they kept silent, and in those days told no one of what they had seen.”  And, I mean, can you blame them?  Remember, this is before the death of Jesus, which means before the resurrection, before the Holy Spirit and Pentecost.  Imagine trying to explain what they had just seen.  Their teacher, Jesus, hanging out with Moses and Elijah, and the voice from heaven . . . sometimes in the midst of mystery, the best thing to do is to keep silent.  When we don’t understand, when we are overwhelmed by what we see, sometimes the best thing to do is to keep silent.

And that’s where all this comes together today.  This is not a story about me or you.  This is a story about Jesus.  But, then, it’s only natural to ask: If it’s not a story about you and me, then what does this rather odd story about Jesus mean to you and me?  
I think the answer is in that silence.  Silence can be golden.  Silence is respectful, comforting, appropriate.

For something to be overwhelming and incomprehensible doesn’t mean that it has to be glorious.  In our daily lives, it’s often quite the opposite, isn’t it?  We get overwhelmed by financial pressures, by unexpected illness, by the death of people we love.  We cannot comprehend the tragedies in our world, or in our neighbors’ lives, let alone in our own lives.  We stand in a place where words make no sense.  Sure some days are glorious: everybody’s got a job and everybody’s healthy.  But, you know, those days can be rare.  And sometimes, the only appropriate response to what we see is one of silence.

And that response of silence is appropriate not just because of what we see and experience.  That silence is also appropriate because you and I are about to witness the exodus of Jesus.  As we stand at the threshold of Lent, we take up our crosses and follow Jesus on this journey to Jerusalem.  We are in a place where words make no sense.   And we gather in this place today to receive food for this Lenten journey.  And when we receive the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Lord, we are in a place where any words in response make no sense, except for one.  And that word is “Amen.”

YEAR C 2025 epiphany 6

Epiphany 6, 2025
Jeremiah 17:5-10
1 Corinthians 15:12-20
Luke 6:17-26
Psalm 1

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

We sometimes call this reading “the beatitudes of Luke.”  They are slightly different from the Beatitudes of Matthew.  Matthew only gives us the blessings.  In Luke’s version, Jesus also adds the “woes.”  In Matthew, it’s the sermon on the mount.  But in Luke—as you might have noticed—it specifically says "Jesus came down . . . and stood on a level place.”  It’s usually called “the sermon on the plain.”  This is one of the themes of Luke’s gospel.  Lifting up the lowly and casting down the proud.  Leveling the playing field, as we might put it.  In Matthew it’s a mountain; in Luke it’s a level place.  In Matthew it’s about blessing the downtrodden; in Luke it’s also about announcing woe to those who are rich and happy and satisfied with things the way they are.  

Go back and look at the song of Mary, the Magnificat, in the very first chapter of Luke’s gospel.  God has filled the hungry with good things, and God has sent the rich away empty . . . which then makes them also among the hungry, meaning that God can fill them with good things too.  That’s Luke, in a nutshell.

But first, let’s look at the other readings we heard this morning.  In Jeremiah, we heard something very similar to those beatitudes from Luke.  The prophet writes, “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is in the Lord.”  But then also, “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord.”  In less poetic language, we could say trusting in God is a blessing in itself.  Trusting in ourselves is a curse.  And our reaction to that, here in the land of self-made, up-by-the-bootstraps entrepreneurs, is nuh-uh!  From the moment we are born we are told, trust in yourself, believe in yourself, watch out for yourself.  It seems Jeremiah begs to differ: And instead, blessed are those who trust in the Lord.

Then, let’s turn to today’s Psalm.  “Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked . . . Their delight is in the law of the Lord.  It is not so with the wicked; they are like chaff which the wind blows away. Therefore the wicked shall not stand upright when judgment comes.”  Again, in less poetic language, the ones who are happy, who are blessed, are the ones who stay connected to God, the creator of all that is.  On the other hand, those who are not connected to God have no foundation.  They are like a beautiful, towering house of cards.  And though we might be tempted to envy them for their self reliance, and success, and confidence, they will not stand upright when judgement comes.  Scary stuff.

But take note:  The wicked do not perish because they are being punished.  They perish because they are not connected to God.  They do not have the one thing that matters in this life.  And here’s the problem:  We think of these ones as happy, or blessed, because we have a fundamental misunderstanding of what truly matters.  According to the Psalmist, the truly happy ones find their delight in the law of the Lord, and they meditate on his law day and night.  The law of the Lord.  The wicked are a law unto themselves.  And not to put too fine a point on it, but the word autonomy literally means “self law.”  Auto-nomy: self law.  Yikes! 

These are harsh things to hear in a nation that so puts self-reliance on a pedestal.  But according to these first two readings, building myself up does not equal happiness; the goal of life is not self-sufficiency; and getting what I want does not equal prosperity.  Even though you have probably heard the opposite from the first day you waddled into your kindergarten class.  Relying on God is wisdom; relying on yourself is foolishness.  And when we doubt that is true, all we have to do is take a walk through any cemetery.  All the earthly success, all the fortunes passed down to their kids, all the streets named after the ones buried in those graves is not going to help them if they are not connected to God.  Mastering the power of positive thinking and reading “Your Best Life Now” will not raise us up from death.  Sorry.

So, that’s the first two readings.  Now let’s look at the words we heard from Jesus a few minutes ago.  Jesus says, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now,  for you will be filled.  Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.”  It’s important for us to notice that Jesus does not say, Blessed are the poor because you are poor!  Being poor is not what makes them blessed.  You know why the poor and hungry and weeping are blessed?  Because Jesus is blessing them.  Jesus sees them with the mercy-filled eyes of God, which is a completely different view from what you and I have.

You and I—living here in the land of self-reliance—would tend to say, “You know who’s really blessed?  Those who are rich; those who are full now; blessed are those who are laughing now.”  You see the problem, right?  We equate blessing and happiness with everything that is the actual opposite of what Jesus is saying.  Every self-help book and better business practices manual tells us that Jesus is wrong.  That Jeremiah is wrong.  That the Psalmist is wrong.  Which is why when this collection of readings comes up every three years, we all lose our footing and start thinking, “Well, that’s not really true Jesus.  You’ve got it all backwards.  Blessed are the rich and woe to the poor, Jesus.”  We don’t want to think about these lessons because these lessons stand opposed to everything we’ve been taught from the moment we could be taught anything at all.

So what are we to make of all this?  How do we reconcile what we see in the world around us with what God is telling us in these three readings?  Well, maybe our main takeaway is just that:  Things are not as they appear. Because God’s perspective is different from ours.  What we call rich and famous, God calls selfish and despised.  What we call poor and downtrodden, God calls blessed and admirable.  And, not in some future pie in the sky kind of way, but right now.  Today.  God does not see the world as we see the world.  God does not judge people the way we judge people.  And that is good news, believe me!

Because this means that when people reject you, God calls you blessed.  When you find that people are leaving you out and putting you down, God is drawing you in and lifting you up.  In those times when everyone you know is turning away from you, God is turning toward you, because God sees what mere mortals cannot:  That you are precious, honored, and loved.  Blessed.

And here is the most interesting thing of all.  If we could see with the mercy-filled eyes of  God, if you and I could see things as God sees them, we might also say, what the world calls powerful, we call weak.  What the world calls successful, we call failure.  What the world calls wasteful, we call valuable.  And, more importantly, what the world rejects, we seek out and embrace.  

Being connected to the Creator of everything that is, seen and unseen, this is what truly matters.  Whether you are rich or poor.  

Trusting in God to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves, that is what truly counts.  Whether you are hungry or full. 

Living our lives in the hope of the resurrection is what makes life worth living . . . Because what the world calls dead, God calls alive.

Listen again to today’s Collect:  O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers; and because in our weakness we can do nothing good without you, give us the help of your grace, that in keeping your commandments we may please you both in will and deed.

May God give us the grace to put our trust in God, who is our only strength and our redeemer.  You are treasured, and honored, and redeemed—no matter what the world around us may say—because you are connected to the one true and living God.  Blessed are you, people of St. Timothy’s.  Blessed are you because Jesus is blessing you.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 the presentation

The Presentation, 2025
Malachi 3:1-4
Psalm 24:7-10
Hebrews 2:14-18
Luke 2:22-40

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

So in this reading we just heard, Mary and Joseph take their little boy, Jesus to the Temple, in order to fulfill the Law of Moses.  And then they offer the appointed sacrifice of two turtledoves or young pigeons as the law requires.  Great.  But, why?  Why do Mary and Joseph have to go and do this thing that is required by the Jewish Law of their day, when Jesus is already the Son of God?  Why does Jesus, who is God, need to be presented to God in this way?  And, for another thing, why are we celebrating the Presentation of Our Lord on February 2nd?

Well, let’s start with the easy one: we’re only noticing The Presentation of Our Lord because it happens to fall on a Sunday this year.  But the Presentation is always 40 days out from Christmas.  It’s always on February 2nd, but we don’t usually hear about it.  Which makes me a little sad inside.  But this day is also called Candlemas, and is traditionally the day that churches bless their candles for the coming season.  And, in some traditions, THIS is the day when you take down your Christmas decorations.  (Which has been my ongoing excuse for why there is a still a giant pine tree standing in the corner of our living room.)

But enough of that.  Let’s go back to the beginning.  Like back to the time of Moses.  As you’ll recall from “The Prince of Egypt” movie, the Israelites—God’s chosen people—are being held in slavery by Pharaoh in Egypt.  God gets Moses to lead them out of bondage and through the Red Sea, and then they wander in the desert for 40 years.  (There’s that number 40 again.)  And while they’re out there, God gives Moses the Ten Commandments.  And then later on, God gives them a whole bunch of other laws they need to follow.  Like a lot of laws!

What is the purpose of those laws?  The things we call the Law of Moses?  You know, all that stuff about shellfish and the Sabbath and pots and pans and sacrifices of turtledoves.  What’s the point of those?  This is a very important question, which I will answer for you.  The Law of Moses was intended to make the chosen people distinct and separate from their pagan neighbors.  To differentiate them.  Everyone around them was doing particular things like eating pork, and mixing fabrics, and working on the Sabbath.  And also doing horrific things like sacrificing their first-born sons to their pagan gods.  God’s wants us to see a different way of living.  And so rather than sacrificing their first-born sons, God’s people sacrifice pigeons on behalf of their first born.

God wants the chosen people to be different from their neighbors, you see?  And that is important for this reason:  Following these laws does not change God.  Following these laws changes God’s people.  In obeying the commandments of God, the Israelites become different from their neighbors.  Not for God’s sake, but for their own sake.  God’s people are to be holy, which literally means to be set apart.  That is the purpose of the Law of Moses.  To set them apart.

But also, the purpose of the laws is not so that God can sort them out from their neighbors. The purpose is so that they can sort themselves out from their neighbors.  So that they will know they are God’s people.  God does not need to recognize who they are, but they need to recognize who they are.  You remember when Moses is up with God on the mountain receiving the Ten Commandments?  And the people come to his brother Aaron with all their jewelry and ask him to make a bull out of it, and they bow down and worship it.  And then God gets angry and sends Moses back down to yell at them.

Why is God angry with them?  Because they broke the rules?  No.  Because they have forgotten who they are.  They have become like their neighbors, worshipping a golden calf.  That’s not what God’s people do.  That’s not how God’s people act.  That’s how their neighbors behave.  But God’s people are different.  God’s people are not like their child-sacrificing pagan neighbors.  And when they act like their neighbors, it means they have forgotten their identity.  They have forgotten who they are, and whose they are.  And Moses smashes the Ten Commandments into pieces, and has to go back up the mountain and start over.

To be clear: God does not need the Law of Moses to recognize the chosen people.  God already knows God’s chosen people. The point is to get them to know themselves as the chosen people.  And clearly, it’s harder than it looks, right?  Moses goes up the mountain, and before he can say “Ten Commandments,” they’re down there worshipping a golden calf they just made up.  As we say in my favorite Eucharistic Prayer, “Again and again you called us into covenant with you.”  God is always calling us back.  Always looking for ways to help us recognize who we really are: God’s holy, chosen people.

So, again, why do Mary and Joseph take Jesus to the Temple forty days after his birth?  To fulfill what is written in the Law.  Not because God needs it.  Not because Jesus needs it.  But because Mary and Joseph need it.  They need to be reminded of who they are.  It doesn’t change God that they sacrifice two turtledoves.  But it changes Mary and Joseph.  Because it reminds them that they are among God’s chosen people.  They are set apart from those who do not bring their first-born sons to the Temple.  They are reminded of who they are, and whose they are.

And then there’s Simeon, whom also heard about.  He is led by the Spirit to come to the Temple.  The same Spirit who told him that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Messiah.  This is a man who lives by hope!  With hope.  In hope.  He does not know when he will die, but he knows that the Messiah will come in his lifetime.  And he will see the Messiah.  It’s hard to even imagine the thrill he must feel at seeing Jesus.  People have been waiting for generations to see the Messiah, and Simeon lives his days knowing that the Messiah will come during his lifetime.  And he does!

And what does he do when he meets Jesus?  He steps aside.  It’s like the ultimate mic drop, you know?  Like, my work here is done.  Lord, let your servant depart in peace, according to your word.  For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all people.  A light to the Gentiles (that’s us), and the glory of your people Israel.  The Messiah has come, for everyone, and Simeon can now go in peace.

Simeon was set apart by God to be one who would see Jesus.  That is his identity, his chosen purpose.  And Mary and Joseph are astonished by this.  And then Simeon blesses them, which is just beautiful.  But then there’s also Anna.  She is referred to as a prophet, and is 84 years old.  Which would be ancient in those days.  She also recognizes Jesus as the Messiah, and begins “to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”  Another first-century evangelism chair, heads out to do God’s work in the world.

All these people in today’s Gospel, Mary, Joseph, Simeon, Anna, they all know their identity.  They know who they are, and whose they are.  And when they encounter Jesus, knowing who they are, everything changes.  Just like for you and me.  Knowing who Jesus is tells us who we are, and whose we are, and that changes everything.

You and I go through life with a lot of uncertainty . . . to say the least.  Situations change, we lose those we love, relationships fall apart, disease and illness are never far from us, it seems.  As the Collect says, we are constantly tossed about by the chances and changes of this life.  But when we remember who we are, when we remember whose we are, when we remember our identity as God’s people, then everything is different.  Not easier . . . but different.  Because we have hope.  Because we remember that we are not alone.  Because our eyes have seen God’s salvation.  And we too can go in peace, according to God’s word.

May God give us the grace to remember our identity:  redeemed children of the one God, who makes all things new, who lifts up the lowly, who dismisses the servants in peace, according to God’s word.  The one who sends us out, like Anna, to praise God, and to speak about the child, to all who are looking for redemption . . . which is, quite honestly, everyone we meet.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 st timothy sunday

St. Timothy Sunday, 2025
Isaiah 42:1-7
Psalm 30:1-5
2 Timothy 1:1–8
John 10:1–10

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Today we celebrate St. Timothy Sunday.  Our “patronal feast,” as it is called.  And we have good reason to celebrate our 189 years of ministry in Massillon, and beyond.  This parish has done some amazing things, and we have a proud history of helping our neighbors.  From setting up trade schools in the basement, to building a chapel for our black neighbors after the Civil War.  Over the centuries we have fed people, and educated people, and entertained people, and been good neighbors for a long time.  And I know we will continue to do even more in the future.

We also have some dark periods in our parish history.  
In 1851, at a Christmas Eve service, a young girl named Abby was accused of “spirit rapping,” because noises were heard during the priest’s sermon.  She was charged with disturbing a religious service, and an actual trial was held in Cleveland, which was covered by the local media for several days.  The judge dismissed the case for lack of evidence.  And life went on.
 

In 1873, Fr. Wallace Probasco came to St. Timothy’s.  In the earliest versions of our parish history, his red-headed wife is disparagingly described as drawing attraction from the the older men of the parish, and riding her horse around town like a “common hussy.”  But that was probably just the anger talking, since she refused to visit her priest husband as he died of smallpox, for fear it might damage her delicate complexion.  More recent editions of the parish history are a little kinder to her.  And life went on.

In 1877, Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke took over at St. Timothy’s, and he lasted just 8 years.  As our parish history puts it, “An unsub­stantiated story says that after a secret vestry meeting he was asked to resign. A Southern  Democrat [right after the Civil War] he had alienated some of the congregation by his political views.”  And life went on.

The point of my telling you these stories is, we can celebrate our history, while also acknowledging where we’ve gone off the rails.  And life has gone on.

And this week, as we celebrate our parish history, many people are celebrating the inauguration of our new president.  Nationwide, 49% of the people voted for him.  In Ohio, 55% of the people voted for him.  In Stark County, 61% of the people voted for him.  Which means, 61% of our voting neighbors wanted the things that are starting to happen, and will happen in the years ahead.  On Monday, as fires continued to rage in southern California, we withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement, joining an elite group of four countries, which now includes Iran, Libya, Yemen and us.  As we have clawed our way back from Covid, and the threat of avian flu and other diseases continues to grow, we have now withdrawn from the World Health Organization, and paused funding for medical conferences and cancer research.

Lots of other things happened this week as well, such as pardoning people who assaulted and killed police officers at the Capitol on January 6th, because we back the blue, and support law and order.  And, closest to me, the Federal Government now says that trans people do not exist.  As the proud parent of trans person I can tell you this one is patently false.  Trans people do exist, and you have met one, and eaten meals with one, and heard one sing in our choir.  But 61% of my neighbors wanted this denial of my child’s existence, and so here we are.  Welcome to Stark County Fr. George.

You might be among the 61% who are celebrating the inauguration of the new president, and I sure hope the price of eggs finally does come down.  But some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  And not just for our own children.  When ICE comes back again to raid the Freshmark plant—which they most certainly will—I worry about what happens to the children who come home from school to find their parents are suddenly gone.  Seriously.  What happens to them?  Those are real kids, who live ten blocks away from us, no matter the price of the eggs they pack into the cartons we buy at Giant Eagle.  So yeah.  Some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But 61% of the people in Stark County wanted exactly this.

Now I know some of you are thinking, “Hey, Fr. George promised not to preach politics from the pulpit.”  And, yes, I did promise that.  Because you’d hate to follow in the footsteps of the Southern Democrat Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke and be run out of town on a rail.  But I’m not talking about politics or elections; I’m talking about the results of politics and elections.  I’m not telling you who to vote for, or my opinions on legislation.  I’m just telling you about the real-world consequences in the real world we live in because 61% of the people told us they wanted this world.

And this seems as good a time as any to tell you that on Thursday, someone called the church office and left a l-o-n-g and rambling message about how disgusted he was by what a Bishop in another Diocese said to the president during her sermon, explaining how she could not possibly know that people are frightened right now, and how he would never join our church, and that the Episcopal Church leadership is absent because they have their heads stuck up a “woke hole.”  Left that message.  On our church voicemail.  A faith community 400 miles away from that sermon.  We’re in for quite a ride the next four years, I can tell you that.

But there is nothing political about what I’m saying.  I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name or political party.  I am just reminding you that we are heading into a period of great suffering for the people around us, including people you know and love.  People who are going to need protecting, and support, and allies.  And for the next four years, some of us are going to be sad, and angry, and worried, while knowing that 61% of the people we run into in the grocery store wanted exactly this.

And I’m also telling you where I am, as your priest.  Like it or not, you have a priest who—barring some outside intervention—is going to be sad, and angry, and worried for some time to come.  But I am still your priest, no matter who you voted for, and no matter who you support in the political realm.  So see?  I’m not preaching politics after all!  I’m just asking you to care.  Asking you to care about people who are going to suffer.  A lot.

But at the same time, we are still here celebrating St. Timothy Sunday and preparing for our Annual Meeting.  Our gospel street preacher is probably outside right now with his plastic bullhorn getting ready to terrorize us after the service.  (Which is all the more incentive for you to stick around for the luncheon and Annual Meeting, so you don’t have to hear him call you a sodomite as you walk to your car today.)  But he’s allowed to be out there.  The First Amendment supports his freedom to do that—for those who still believe in the Constitution  And he doesn’t actually disrupt our services, like Abby’s alleged spirit rapping did back in 1851.

We’ve been through a lot these past 189 years.  And God willing, we will be through a lot for many years to come.  But I can’t help but think we are at an inflection point as a parish, while living in a country that is also at an inflection point.  Are we willing to honestly look at who we are and who we want to be?  Are we willing to put aside partisan talking points and things we see online to honestly talk to each other?  Or are we more inclined to take the easy path.  Be reflexively angry at someone who disagrees with us.  To shut out those who get their news from a different source.  To reject those of a different tribe.  And that goes in both directions, believe me.

St. Timothy’s has held together through an actual Civil War.  Through two World Wars.  Through panics and depressions and presidential assassinations and civil unrest, and more than one pandemic.  And yet here we are.  Battered, and damaged, in an aging building that never stops leaking.  But here we are.  We can do this because we have done this.

Some of us are really hopeful right now, but some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But we are in this together.  And that’s the most important thing.  Together.  Let’s keep talking.  Let’s keep loving our neighbors as ourselves.  And let’s keep trusting God to guide us into the future.  A future where one day, by the grace of God, not any single one of us will have to wake up feeling sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  As our own state motto says, “with God all things are possible.”  May God make it so.  May God make it so, and may God continue to bless St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 epiphany 2

Epiphany 2, 2025
Isaiah 62:1-5
Psalm 36:5-10
1 Corinthians 12:1-11
John 2:1-11

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

So, as you know, we have four Gospel books in our Bible.  They are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  The first three (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) are called the Synoptic Gospels, because they sort of line up in details, chronology, emphasis, and language.  (Syn-optic, like “same view.”)  You can find Jesus calming the stormy sea in all three synoptic gospels, but not in John.  You find the raising of Lazarus in John, but not in the synoptics.  

John’s gospel is big on symbolism and metaphor, sometimes changing the order of events—like the Last Supper—for full symbolic impact.  Whereas Matthew and Luke tell us about the birth of Jesus, and Mark starts at the Baptism of Jesus, John starts before the beginning of the world, saying in the beginning was the Word, and the light shines in the darkness.  You can think of the synoptics as being like biographies of Jesus, and John being like a long-form poem about the meaning of Jesus’ life.  Point being, John’s gospel is packed with symbolism and metaphor, so it is quite different from the others.

Today, we heard from John the story that we commonly call “The Wedding at Cana.”  And as soon as you hear that title, you probably think, “Oh yeah.  That time Jesus turned water into wine.  Got it.” And then start thinking about something else.  This is always the downside of Bible stories being familiar to us.  Or any stories, for that matter.  We’ve heard it before, we know the main point, let’s move on.  And, whenever we do that, we miss the opportunity to hear God speak something new to us in the text.  It’s important for us to remember that the Bible is a living text, and no story can ever be fully understood.  Especially no story from John!

So, let’s look closer at what we actually heard today, keeping in mind how different John’s gospel is.  Our story opens with “on the third day.”  The third day from what?  We don’t know.  John doesn’t say.  How weird is that?  “And the mother of Jesus was there.”  This is the first time that the mother of Jesus is mentioned in John.  And—get this—John never tells us her name.  Not in all of his writing does he call her Mary.  If it weren’t for the synoptic gospels, we would not even know Mary’s name.  And yet, at the foot of the cross, Jesus tells John to behold his mother, and his mother to behold her son.  So it’s not like Mary isn’t important to John.

Anyway, then we get to the section where Jesus and his mother are talking.  Because of the liberties in translation that people have taken over the years, we tend to see this as Mary saying, “Do something!” and then telling the servants to do whatever Jesus tells them.  But the language is a lot more vague than that.  And there are missing verbs and stuff.  It’s more like Mary actually says, “They have no wine,” and Jesus says, “What to me and to you, woman.”  And—lest you worry—calling his mother “woman” is not insulting, as we’re apt to take it.  It sounds rude, but it is not.  You know, different culture, different language.  More concerning is that there is no verb in the sentence, “What to me and to you.”

And then we get Mary saying, "Do whatever he tells you,” which sounds very controlling, and suggests she knows what’s going to happen.  But what she really says is, “That which he might say to you, do.”  Which is more like saying, if he should happen to tell you to do something, go ahead and do it.  And then we get to what you and I always think of as the miracle part of the story.

Jesus tells them to fill the ritual stone jars with water, draw some out, and take it to the banquet manager.  When he tastes it, he is amazed that they saved the good wine for last.  But look at how strange this is in the text.  John never says, “And then by an amazing miracle, the water turned into wine!”  Because that’s not the point of the story.  Even though we think it is the point of the story, it is not.  John adds the transformation into wine as just a little detail along the way.  “When the steward tasted the water that had become wine . . .” which is like saying, "When the steward tasted the water that was in the cup . . .”  The fact that it had become wine is not the point of the story.

We latch onto the transformation into wine because it looks like a magic trick, and we love magic tricks.  But if you look at who knows what in the story, you can see it is not a magic trick, because no one is amazed by the transformation.  The narrator provides the transformation as a little detail.  The boss doesn’t know where the good wine came from, but credits the steward.  The servants know where it came from, but they don’t know that it turned into wine.  The guests know nothing about any of it.  And that’s because turning water into wine is not the point of this story.

The point of the story of the wedding at Cana is that best wine was saved for last.  The time when you would be expecting something mediocre, or worse, that is when Jesus gives us the best.  God never offers just enough, or an adequate amount.  The Psalms and the Prophets’ writings are filled with talk of feasts, and banquets, and ever-flowing streams.  Glimpses of heaven, put into the language of the here and now.  God’s magnanimous generous nature is always to give more than we can ever ask or imagine.  A glimpse of the heavenly banquet and wedding feast, where the best is yet to come.

So, let’s talk about the stone jars.  In Jewish ritual practice, any clay pottery that became defiled had to be smashed, never to be used again.  However, Rabbis had decreed that vessels made from carved stone could not be defiled, and so they were used for ritual washing, among other things.  At the wedding at Cana there were six of these jars, each holding 20 to 30 gallons of water.  so, that’s somewhere between 120 and 180 gallons.  Gallons.  With a G.  That’s a lot of wine!  These jars are holding the best wine.

These stone jars are a crucial part of the story, but they don’t do anything.  We think of these jars as a prop, just sitting there, empty and unimportant.  But they are where the miracle takes place!  And, as I’ve said, the miracle is not in the transformation of water into wine.  No, the miracle of this story is that Jesus always gives us more than we can ever ask or imagine.  The chief steward is not amazed that it was wine; he was amazed that it was the best wine.

And since John’s gospel is packed full of symbolism and metaphor, I’m going to take a cue from John and suggest this for us to ponder . . .

Those six stone jars are like our hearts, and maybe like our lives.  Not something to be smashed and destroyed when defiled by sin, but definitely in need of refilling, refreshing, and renewing.  There are times in all our lives when we think of ourselves like those jars:  insignificant, empty and unimportant.  And in those times, we should remember God’s unending regard for the least, the little, and the lost.  Like in Mary’s Magnificat, God lifts up the lowly, and gives to those in need.  We should remember those stone jars.

We are transformed by the love of God in the moments when we least expect it.  And when Jesus refills us, when we are filled with the refreshing water of life, we are then poured out for the world, transformed into a generous serving of the best God has to offer the world.  The miracle is not in the transformation that God works in our lives; the miracle is that it is always the best.  Given for everyone, with more than enough for all.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 baptism of jesus

The Baptism of Our Lord
Isaiah 43:1-7
Psalm 29
Acts 8:14-17
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Although I forgot to mention it last week, for those who are interested, there’s a basket of chalk in the parish hall, along with instructions for chalking your door for Epiphany.  Some people say that chalking the door brings good luck, or keeps evil spirits away.  But that’s not why we do it.  We put chalk on our doors to remind ourselves that God is with us, not to dispel demons.  As I remind us, over and over again, God does not save us from trouble; God saves us in our troubles.

We worship a God who specializes in resurrections, new beginnings, hope for the hopeless, love for the unloved.  All the miracles of Jesus are about setting things right: restoration of sight, healing of disease, raising the dead back to life.  Chalking our door reminds us that Jesus is with us; that’s why we do it, despite what troubles might come our way.

And speaking of Jesus' being with us, today we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord.  It’s a big deal in the Christian Church; it gets its own Sunday every year.  And in today’s version of his baptism, from Luke, we have John the Baptist with his dramatic speech to set the stage.  He’s really building Jesus up to be a scary guy, baptizing with fire, a winnowing fork in his hand, with unquenchable fire!  The drama is off the charts here.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you JESUS!”

And then Luke writes, “when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also was baptized . . .”  That’s it.  That’s the entrance.  Jesus gets baptized right along with everyone else—a parenthetical thought on the Feast Day of Our Lord’s Baptism.  Luke doesn’t give us any details about the baptism.  Jesus is just . . . baptized along with everybody else.  Or, as Luke says, right along with “ALL the people.”  All the people were baptized, and Jesus also was baptized.  Kind of an understated entrance for the guy John the Baptist has been stumping for, isn’t it?  I mean, the set-up seems a little overblown.

But, of course, you know what happens next.  Jesus is praying, the heavens open up, the Holy Spirit descends in the form of a dove, and there is a voice from heaven saying, “You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  Whole theological careers have been built on this sentence.  And mine will not be among them.  There are too many questions about what this means for Jesus’ own sense of his Messianic identity for me to wade into.  But this voice from heaven sounds remarkably similar to what comes just prior to the reading we heard from Isaiah this morning.

In Isaiah 42 we read, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.”  Of course, we might conclude that Luke intends for it to sound remarkably similar, and that’s why it does.  But the echo is certainly there, and it would make the connection clear for anyone familiar with the writings of Isaiah.  

And just after that prophecy, in today’s reading from Isaiah, we have a series of promises.  I have called you by name and you are mine.  Do not fear; I am with you.  You are precious in my sight.  I am the Lord your God, your Savior.  These are promises to God’s people.  These are promises to you and me.  

And these texts from Isaiah parallel the announcement at Jesus’ baptism along with the people.  I mean, ALL the people.  Isaiah 43:2—When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.  When you pass through the water, God is with you.  You are God’s beloved child.  In you, God is well pleased.  And how do we know God is with us when we pass through the water?

Because as we heard, Jesus meets the people being baptized in the water, and God is well pleased.  Jesus joins with each of us in the waters of baptism, just as he meets us at this Altar in the sacrament.  When Jesus joins us in the baptismal water, the water overflows with promise--forgiveness, new life, God calling us by name, God proclaiming us beloved. Like Jesus, we are named precious, honored, and loved. God is with us always; we do not need to be afraid, because Jesus is the fulfillment and embodiment of God's promise.

And, after meeting us in the water, Jesus meets us in every circumstance, every season of life, even in the moment of death—especially there. From the water, Jesus walks with us on the journey of our lives, ending at the cross, and the empty tomb. Jesus has gone before us, and is always with us, whether or not we chalk our doors.

But there’s a sticky point in the Baptism of Jesus, and maybe it’s a thought you’ve had yourself, and it is this:  If Baptism is for the remission of sin (you know, forgiveness of sin), and since Jesus is without sin, then why does Jesus have to be baptized?  Why does Jesus get baptized along with ALL the people?  Well, two thoughts on that . . .

First, we kind of have the shoe on the wrong foot here.  It’s not that Jesus is baptized like us; it’s that we are baptized like Jesus.  Jesus isn’t doing what we do in baptism; rather, in our baptism, we are doing what Jesus does.  We are joining in the baptism of Jesus.

And secondly, baptism is not a requirement; baptism is a gift.  God doesn’t love us because we have been baptized.  Instead, we get to be baptized because God loves us.  And that’s particularly clear when we remember those words from Isaiah.  God says when you pass through the waters I will be with you.  Which is quite different from saying, after you have passed through the waters, I will consider loving you.

And as we saw in today’s gospel reading, when ALL the people were baptized, Jesus was with them.  Not just watching them from the shore, nodding in approval.  No, Jesus is baptized with them.  Not in some special, private, rock-star baptism, but right along with them.  
Which suggests that rather than looking up to heaven for God, maybe we should look around the room.  Because that’s where Jesus is.

In our own Baptismal Covenant, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.  We renew that covenant every time we witness a baptism.  Every time we see someone get confirmed.  Every time the Bishop visits.  Every Easter.  And today as well, on the Baptism of our Lord.  And, as with all the promises we make in church, we make the promises along with the phrase, “with God’s help.”  We promise to do the impossible, with God’s help.  To seek and serve Christ in all persons, with God’s help.  Because God is with us.

I encourage you to hear these words again, because God says to you, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you . . . For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

God loves you.  Exactly as you are.  And whether or not there is chalk on your door, Jesus is always with you.

Amen.