YEAR A 2026 lent 3

Lent 3, 2026
Exodus 17:1-7
Romans 5:1-11
John 4:5-42
Psalm 95

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

Three years ago, when this gospel reading last came up, I had a revelation about what’s going on in this story.  And that revelation changed how I read this story, and it is an important and crucial change that I don’t want to lose sight of.  So, at the risk of repeating myself, let’s jump in.

Let’s start with how I always used to interpret this gospel text.  How, in fact, I’ve always heard this text interpreted.  Jesus finds himself alone with a Samaritan woman who has had five husbands, and she is surprised that he is talking to her.  Everyone agrees on that part.  But I’ve always focused on her being an outcast, by virtue of being a Samaritan.  Adding the assumption that she would be an outcast among her own outcast people because she has had five husbands.  (And lots of people imply that she is somehow a loose woman because of that.)

Then, we typically make the jump to explain why she’s at the well at noon, the heat of day.  Because, nobody likes her, see?  She comes to the well when no one else would be there.  Like she’s hiding by coming at noon.  Then I used to pivot to point out how awesome Jesus is, because he doesn’t see her the way everyone else does.  Isn’t Jesus wonderful for daring to embrace someone who is so rejected by her own rejected people because she has had many husbands?  

However, the text does not tell us why she goes to the well at noon.  And all those years I had been patting myself on the back for making plausible excuses for why she’s had so many husbands, but the text doesn’t tell us that either.  My starting point was always that she was an outcast, a nameless woman, and Jesus is extra great for hanging out with her.  But I had been projecting all that onto her.  Because it’s not in the text.

And treating her the way I always did, essentially just makes her into a pawn so Jesus can look cool.  I mean, she doesn’t even get a name.  How important can she be?  But in the Orthodox tradition—and finally now in the Episcopal Church—this woman does have a name.  And it’s not just any name.  She is called Photini.  Which sounds like some kind of fancy drink.  But hear me out.

You can maybe hear in the name Photini that it is connected to the Greek word for light.  Think of photosynthesis, photons, even photographs (literally translated to “light drawings”).  The name Photini means, “the enlightened one.”  And this is where it gets really interesting!

Think back to last week’s gospel text, from the chapter before this in John’s gospel.  We heard the story of Nicodemus, who came to Jesus in darkness.  Remember that?  Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night, and in darkness—both literally and metaphorically.  And Nicodemus also leaves Jesus in darkness—both literally and metaphorically.

Nicodemus comes up two more times in the scriptures.  When his fellow Pharisees send guards to arrest Jesus, he says that they shouldn’t do that without giving Jesus a chance to testify before them in person.  And then he shows up with with the spices to help Joseph of Aramathea bury the body of Jesus, where he is referred to as a “secret disciple of Jesus.”  That’s it.  Comes in darkness, argues for direct testimony from the accused, and brings the spices to bury the body.  In darkness.

But Photini meets Jesus at noon.  Not the heat of the day, but rather when the light is at its brightest!  She is not cowering by hiding at noon.  She comes openly in the full light, which nobody else seems able to tolerate.  Last week a religious leader came to Jesus in darkness and we felt no need to explain his secrecy.  Today, a woman shows up in broad daylight and we reflexively revert to explaining why that’s a problem!  

My starting point was always to assume she is an outcast.  Well shame on me—and 2,000 years of western patriarchy—for trying to read something into this story that simply isn’t there.  Jesus meets a beloved child of God at the well, and the standard reaction is to try to explain away her beloved-ness.  But she is not hiding at noon.  She comes in full light, and becomes a powerful evangelist who converts an entire town with her testimony.  

The given name Photini gives us the roadmap here.  She comes in honesty and light, and is exactly who she is, hiding nothing.  This conversation between her and Jesus is the longest conversation Jesus has with anyone in all the scriptures.  And it’s not a lecture.  It’s an actual conversation, with give and take.  She asks sassy questions, and won’t take lofty-sounding metaphors at face value.  She wants to know the truth; she’s a theological thinker; she trusts that she does not have to grovel in front of Jesus, or anyone else!

And what does she do after this encounter with God incarnate?  What does she do after she asks hard questions in broad daylight when no one else would dare to be there?  She leaves her safe-investment water jar there, and goes to tell other people!  She doesn’t prepare a big lofty presentation.  She just tells people her story: “He told me everything I have ever done.”

He told me everything I have ever done.  That sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it?  Think about that.  Don’t you hear that statement with fear and trembling?  Like, you have a conversation with Jesus and your takeaway is, He told me everything I have ever done.  Uh-oh.  That doesn’t sound like good news to me, to be honest.  Like the last thing I want Jesus to bring up is . . . everything I’ve ever done.

But maybe that’s because, like Nicodemus, my default way to approach Jesus is in darkness.  Assuming that Jesus is just too precious and fragile to know about my own darkness.  The last place I want to talk to Jesus is in the white-hot light of the noonday sun, where everything I’ve ever done is exposed.  But that’s how Photini meets him.  At a place where there is nothing to hide and nowhere to hide.  What you see is what you get.  And Jesus sees all of it . . . what she calls, “Everything I have ever done.” 
And.  Jesus.  Does not.  Reject her.

And can you see what that means for you and me?  We too can approach God in true openness, in the true white-hot light of the blazing noonday sun, without fear of rejection.  Asking hard questions of God, laying bare everything we have ever done, demanding real answers to things that don’t make sense, none of that can separate us from the love of God.  We do not need to hide from the one who truly loves us.

And now my new favorite part of this story is the bit about the husbands.  Because Jesus says, “Hey go home and get your husband and come back.”  Now she could have said, “Yeah, good idea.”  And then she could slink away and never come back.  There is no reason for her to expect that Jesus knows she’s not married.  But instead of getting the heck out of there, she says, “I don’t have a husband.”  And Jesus says, “I know; you’ve had five husbands.”  

And you know what?  I picture them both laughing at that moment.  Because it’s funny!  Like Jesus is kind of teasing her.  I love to think of it that way.  Why don’t you go get your husband?  Because I don’t have one.  I know, LOL!  There is a levity to this part of the conversation, if you look for it.  Just two former strangers talking in the brightest moment of the day, and that brightness is reflected in Photini.  Jesus shines his light on her, and she spreads that light to others.  This is a glorious and powerful story of a person who meets Jesus with nothing to hide, and in reflecting the light, she brings everyone she knows to Jesus, the one who knows everything she has ever done.

May Photini remind us that we can bring everything to God, that we will not be turned away or rejected, and that the most powerful testimony of grace is to say to others, “He told me everything I have ever done.  And, still, he did not hide his face from me!”

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 lent 2

Lent 2, 2026
Genesis 12:1-4a
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17
Psalm 121

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

Today I want to focus our attention on what gets left out.  And, specifically, what gets intentionally left out, in order to drive a harmful narrative.  Because—when it comes to God’s work in the world—the part that gets left out is often the best part.  You could say, God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be, and we reflexively try to hide that for some reason.  But let’s start here . . . 

Religion and politics are often in tension.  And I think it’s safe to say this tension has never been higher in our lifetimes than it is right now.  Religion and politics are not supposed to mix, or so they say.  But when it comes to staying in our lanes, it’s been something of a one-way street.  Religious leaders are often told to avoid politics, but we seldom hear the reverse about politicians staying out of religion.  And if it’s true that we clergy should stay in our lane, then it only seems fair that we expect the same of politicians.  Two recent examples come to mind.

First, in defense of the horrendous actions of ICE officers, I heard someone say that we need to have a secure border because heaven itself has a secure border.  They don’t let just anyone in, you see?  And I’ll just say, even if I grant you that—which I definitely do not!—the most basic tenet of Christianity is that heaven has a pathway to citizenship for everybody in Jesus Christ.  Every human being who has ever lived has universal access to that pathway to citizenship.  It’s a core principle of our faith.  And a Christian politician saying that heaven has a closed border to make their political point is leaving out the best part of the story, which is our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  Again, God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be.

Example number two.  Perhaps you saw last year’s interview with a prominent politician who made the claim that we should support Israel based on what we just heard in the reading from Genesis.  When asked why the United States should stand with Israel no matter what, the politician said he was taught in Sunday school that God will bless those who bless Israel, and curse those who curse Israel.  That’s why our country should support Israel: to be blessed rather than cursed.

The first problem with this is the naked transactionalism of it, but whatever.  Secondly, as we heard, God was talking to and about Abram, thousands of years ago, not the geographical country that was founded in 1948.  Thirdly, the politician didn’t finish the quote!  He left out the best part.  What God says in Genesis is: I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.  In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.  ALL.  That’s the best part!  And he left it out!  Again, God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be.

And so let me just say, as a called and ordained servant of the Word, in pointing all this out, I am staying in my lane.  It’s the politicians who are swerving out of their own lane and into mine.  Just as I should not be trying to do politics, they should not be trying to do religion.  Especially when they’re leaving out the best parts!  But enough of that.  On to Paul’s letter to the Romans, where he also talks about God’s promises to Abram.

Paul’s focus here is that the righteousness of Abraham is a gift, and not payment for his actions.  This is a radical thing to say, especially since we are always so focused on rewards and payment being based on work and effort.  As Paul notes, “. . . to one who works, wages are not reckoned as a gift but as something due. But to one who without works trusts him who justifies the ungodly, such faith is reckoned as righteousness.”  In other words, it is faith in the gift of God’s grace that leads to righteousness.  Not our efforts, not our strength, not our adherence to the law.  No, what makes us righteous is faith in God’s unmerited grace.  But it gets even better!

Because as Paul says, For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham.  To ALL his descendants.  To everybody!  To all who share the faith of Abraham in what God has done.  And I’ll say it again: God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be.

And then we turn to Nicodemus, who came to Jesus by night.  (Metaphor alert!)  I find it interesting that Nicodemus only shows up three times in the scriptures.  There is the story we just heard, and then he speaks up for due process when his fellow Pharisees want to arrest Jesus, and then he shows up at the end, to help prepare Jesus’ body for burial.  He doesn’t get a prominent role in the life of Jesus, but he comes in darkness seeking truth, and he argues for the rights of the unjustly accused, and he makes sure that religious burial customs are followed.  You could say he’s always there in the background, but never makes the leap of faith.  And he is not rejected.

But that’s a conversation for another time.  In the conversation we just heard, Nicodemus and Jesus go back and forth, talking past each other, as people are want to do in John’s gospel.  And at the end of their conversation, Jesus says something you’ve heard many times in your life.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”  You’ve heard that before, I’m sure.  John 3:16.  You’ve seen it at sporting events, and maybe heard it referred to as “The Gospel in a nutshell.”

However, many people use this very verse to explain why other people are not welcome in the kingdom of God.  I’ve heard them do it.  It takes a little bit of reverse engineering, but they get there by saying that this verse implies that those who do not believe in Jesus will perish and will not have eternal life.  Of course, Jesus doesn’t say that at all, but if you’re looking to exclude people, inverting any announcement of grace will do the trick.  And how much better if you can use a verse that everybody already knows, whether or not they’ve ever set foot in a church.

Which bring us to the part that gets left out.  Which is John 3:17: “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”  Jesus did not come to condemn, but rather to save.  Save who?  Zealous believers?  Committed Christians?  Nope.  The world.  The world!  Not to condemn the world but to save the world.  That’s the part that gets left out of the “gospel in a nutshell,” and it’s the best part.  And the reason we don’t focus on that part is because—again—God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be.

We want a very carefully defined system that assures us we are loved and redeemed by God, while also wanting a system that says some other group or individuals are not loved and redeemed by God.  It’s just how we’re wired, I’m afraid.  And so, unfortunately, we tend to leave out the good parts.  We leave out the part where heaven has a pathway to citizenship.  We leave out the part where God will bless all the families of the earth.  We forget that grace is a free gift to all Abraham’s descendants.  And we ignore what follows the gospel in a nutshell, which proclaims that Jesus came into the world not to condemn the world but to save the world.

Though God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be, may God daily remind us that that is a good thing.  Because if God can welcome the ones we want to exclude, then it means God can welcome us as well.  No matter what you believe or where you are on your faith journey, there is someone who wants to exclude you, to turn you away, to keep you out.  Thanks be to God that God is bigger than that, that Jesus’ love is wider than that, that God’s mercy goes beyond what we could ask or imagine.  Because even though God’s grace is reliably bigger than we want it to be, it is still big enough to include you and me.  And please, don’t ever leave that part out.

Amen

YEAR A 2026 lent 1

Lent 1, 2026
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7
Romans 5:12-19
Matthew 4:1-11
Psalm 32

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

As we enter into this first Sunday in Lent, you might be expecting to hear condemnations about your sinful lifestyle and threat of eternal damnation.  However, I’m pleased to report that all three readings today come together in a resounding declaration of unmerited grace.  And their combined message is simply this: God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.  Now I could just say “amen” and move on to the Creed.  But you’re probably expecting a little more detail than that.  But if you hear nothing else of what I say today, hold onto that: God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.  That’s our roadmap.

So let’s start with the first reading, from Genesis.  You’ve heard this little story countless times by now, I’m sure.  Although Christians often call it “the Fall,” I personally don’t support that name for it.  Chiefly, because there is no Jewish view of anything like “the Fall,” and it’s not clear that this little snippet puts into motion our inclination to do bad things.  In fact, blaming my own sinful nature on the first man and woman is continuing the cycle of the man blaming the woman and the woman blaming the serpent.  Sometimes called kicking the dog, in family narratives.

Now, far be it from me to treat the first two chapters of Genesis as literal historical newspaper accounts, but let’s look at the text we have in front of us.  God says to the man that he will die on the day he eats of the fruit of one particular tree in the garden.  The serpent asks the woman if there are any restrictions on what they can eat.  And she says they can’t eat of this one tree or they’ll die, but she adds that if they even touch it they will die.  Putting words in God's mouth.  Interesting.

But we have God saying that on the day they eat they will die.  And we have the serpent saying, on the day you eat of it you will not die.  God says you’ll die; serpent says you won’t die.  They eat of the tree.  And on that day . . . did they die?  No they did not.  Nor did they die the next day.  You see the quandary here, right?  Turns out, the one who was telling the truth was . . . the serpent.

Could the serpent see the future?  Was God bluffing?  Are we missing something in the story?  Hard to say.  But I’ll tell you what I think.  As best I can see, this story is about God showing grace.  In fact, it’s the prototype of God’s Grace.  Grace 1.0, if you like.  The very first story of the very first humans ends with God’s unmerited forgiveness.  It is like blueprint for how God will deal with human beings throughout the scriptures.  God sets up rules for our own good, we disobey those rules, and God’s grace appears and saves the day.  Saves lives, come to think of it, because on that day they did not die!

And, I hate to break it to us, but this is not how we run our society.  The existence of mandatory minimum sentencing is your first clue.  When we say people will be punished for breaking the law, we expect them to be punished.  All the parenting books tell us the same thing.  Don’t make threats you aren’t going to keep.  God said the people would die if they did the thing.  The people did the thing.  The people did not die.  That is pure undeserved grace.  And I dare say that we don’t like it, at least not when it happens to other people.  

And then let’s look at the second lesson, from Paul’s letter to the Romans, the “for everyone” part of my opening statement.  Now, in classic Paul style, he uses way too many words to make a simple point, which threatens to make us miss the simple point he’s trying to make.  As I’ve told you before, when we had trouble translating Paul’s letters in Greek class, the professor would often say, “Sometimes the problem isn’t you; sometimes the problem is Paul.”  So let’s boil Paul’s words down to the point he is making.

Paul is suggesting here that death is a result of Adam eating that fruit we heard about in Genesis.  And, since Adam dies, everyone dies.  However, in this same way, the righteousness of Jesus is passed down to everyone as well.  And here’s the key phrase:  “Therefore just as one man's trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man's act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all.”  Note that he says, “for all.”  Justification and life for all.  God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.

And now we come to the “because of Jesus part,” in the reading from Matthew.  From the start, I want you to imagine yourself being really hungry.  I mean really hungry.  Like haven’t eaten for over a month hungry.  And then along comes this guy, The Tester, and he says, “Hey, wanna turn these stones into some bread?”  I confess to you, people of God, that my answer would be “Heck yeah I do!”  If I’m that hungry, and there’s the possibility of instant bread, I am all over it.  And so, in this way, I would clearly fail the very first test from The Tester.  

And don’t even get me started on giving in to the temptation to jump off the roof of the temple and have angels catch me in their arms!  How awesome would that be?!?  But thankfully—for everyone’s sake—this story is not called, “The Temptation of George Baum.”  This is the temptation of Jesus.  It is not a story about me; it is not a story about you.  It is about Jesus.

It’s important to note that these temptations of Jesus start with a word that is closer to “since” than it is to “if.”  The temptation is not to prove that Jesus is the Son of God.  No, each one is a temptation to misuse the power of the role, to reject the calling on Jesus’ life.  You know, since you’re the Son of God, why not make these stones into bread and feed all those hungry people you’re always so worried about?  That’s very different from a challenge to show his power in order to prove who Jesus is.

The test is not to get Jesus to prove that he is the Son of God.  The Tester knows full well that Jesus is the Son of God.  That’s why he’s there, tempting him in the first place.  The temptation is to use his identity to do something to show off, to glory and revel in being who Jesus is.

And—don’t take this personally, but—you are not Jesus.  This is a story about Jesus, not us.  It is easy— dare I say tempting—to put ourselves in the place of Jesus here.  To make this into a story about how we can foil Satan when he comes to tempt us into doing wrong.  And we can even build up big explanations about how Jesus is calling us to stand tough against giving people free bread or food stamps, or God’s unwillingness to save us when we hurl ourselves into dangerous situations.  But our theme here is, God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.

I would encourage us to see this story for what it is: the Temptation of Jesus.  This is not the temptation of you and me.  We have our own temptations, to be sure.  And one of those temptations is to try to make ourselves into Jesus.  To think of ourselves as the ones who are going to save ourselves by our proper actions and the good behavior . . . of ourselves.  The temptations Jesus faced are completely different from the ones you and I face.  But knowing that Jesus did not give in, that he did not stray from his mission of saving you and me from the power of death . . . well, maybe that can encourage us to trust enough not to take it personally when we hear that it’s not about us.

Perhaps the biggest temptation you and I face is exactly that:  The temptation to take it personally.  And by that I mean, the temptation to think it’s all up to us, that it’s all about us, that we somehow have to work at getting God to love us.  We all face this temptation every day, when you think about it.  And we get constant messages that we’re not good enough, that we’re not rich enough, thin enough, smart enough, blah blah blah.  And when we take in those messages for too long, we start to believe those things about ourselves, because we start taking it personally.

So let me remind you of one place where it is personal.  A time when it really is all about you.  You’ll see it again this morning, when you are invited to this Altar to share in the bread and wine, the body and blood of Jesus, given FOR YOU.  Jesus comes to meet you here this morning in the Sacrament.  God shows up in your own two hands saying, “I can work with this.”  

God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.  No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, God’s forgiveness is given freely, with no strings attached.  God loves you more than you could possibly ask or imagine, and I hope you will take that personally.  As I said at the start: God’s grace is for everyone, because of Jesus.  And that means, God's grace is for you.

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 ash wednesday

Ash Wednesday, 2026
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 A 2026 last epiphany

Last Epiphany, 2026
Exodus 24:12-18
2 Peter 1:16-21
Matthew 17:1-9
Psalm 2

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

Sometimes I wonder why it is we keep coming back to church.  We all have our own individual reasons, of course.  I mean, for some of us, it’s our actual career and vocation.  But I know I would keep coming anyway, just as you keep coming back.  And I think what brings us back has something to do with a shared experience.  Like, there are moments of . . . you see it too!  You feel it too!  You sense it too!  That is what binds us together in worship.  The shared experience of something happening.  Something out of the ordinary.  As CS Lewis wrote, “The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one’.”

Sometimes, a worship experience is overpowering.  Sometimes it’s just a glimpse.  But even a glimpse says, “You saw it too!”  The curtain is pulled back.  There was a thin place, a liminal space.  As someone once said to me after a particularly powerful worship experience, sometimes St. Timothy’s is a vortex.  Something happens here.

There’s an old saying that, in worship, the priest’s role is to draw back the curtain . . . and then hide in the folds of it.  In fact that’s why we wear these chasubles that match the Altar cloths.  So the priest can disappear.  In a perfect world, when the priest bows at the Sanctus, all you would see is the bread and wine above all the fabric.  But when the liturgy “works,” it’s because we are doing this thing together.  A thing that has nothing to do with you and me, except for our communal desire to glimpse the divine again.  To make that connection again.

Today is the final Sunday after Epiphany.  On Wednesday, we will observe Ash Wednesday together, where we mark our foreheads with ashes as a reminder that we are dust, and to dust we shall return.  Or in plainer English, we will gather together to remember that we will die.  It’s easy to get caught up in our daily life and the cares of this world and pretend that we’ll just go on living forever.  But Ash Wednesday hits the brakes for us.  We gather on that day to remember that we will all die.  Which might explain why not many people come to church on Ash Wednesday!  That day pokes a hole in the facade that we alone are immortal.  But we gather as a community on that day to remember we are not alone in facing death.


And so, as we begin our Lenten journey next Sunday, our liturgy will change.  As is tradition in the Episcopal Church, both services will start with the Great Litany.  And then, throughout the season of Lent, we’ll begin our Rite I services with the penitential order, and in Rite II we’ll do away with the chanting and we’ll use Eucharistic Prayer C.  You could say, after we watched Jesus be transfigured on the mountain,  we will transfigure our liturgy for a season.

At its heart, the liturgy will remain the same as it has always been.  But the outward appearance will change.  It will look and sound a little different from what we’re used to, but it will be what it has always been.  You could say that we will witness a transfiguration of our liturgy.  Which leads us to look at the prefix, “trans.”

Trans comes to us from Latin, and means across or beyond.  You can see its use as “across” in words like transaction, transport, and transform.  You can see its use as “beyond” in words like transcend, transuranium, and transubstantiation.  However, the word “transfigure” is different.  According to most definitions, to transfigure means to change appearance in a way that exalts or glorifies.  The Transfiguration of Jesus changes his appearance in a way that reveals his glory.

Transfiguration is a difficult concept to wrap our minds around.  If Jesus is one thing, how can he become another thing?  Jesus was fully human.  I mean, it’s right there in our Creeds.  If Jesus had a birth certificate, it would have said, “male, human.”  Not “deity, glowing on a mountain.”  And yet, there he is, transfigured on the mountaintop.  By outward appearances, it seems a pretty good indicator that people can change.

But, of course, we intuitively know this.  When we are born, we are absolutely 100% dependent on the people around us, for everything.  But now, here we all are, having dressed ourselves, fed ourselves, and mostly having driven ourselves over here.  That’s a pretty big change from the moment we were born.  People DO change.  All the time.  All of us.

But, did Jesus change on the mountain?  As we heard, Jesus took a couple disciples up the mountain with him and “he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.”  So did Jesus himself actually change?  Or is it more like the disciples got a glimpse of who Jesus was all along?   As I read it, Jesus did not change.  It’s more like, the curtain was pulled back.  It’s more like the people around him finally caught up to seeing him as he always knew himself to be.  He is not different.  He is revealed.  As the writer of Hebrews says, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today, and forever.” (Heb. 13:8). Not changed—revealed.

So why is it so hard for us to understand this Transfiguration?  Why do we naturally assume that Jesus had to become something else in order for this story to make sense?  Maybe because it doesn’t happen to us.  It happened to Jesus.  Not to us.  We don’t have the same experience as Jesus because . . . we are not Jesus.  But do we insist on seeing the birth certificate of Jesus, in order to prove that he was born male and human, and not glowing on a mountaintop?  No we do not.  He was transfigured in appearance, but he is the exact same Jesus he has always been: yesterday and today, and forever.

If we can accept that things can happen with Jesus’ appearance that we do not understand, maybe we could also learn to accept that changes happen in other people’s appearance that we do not understand.  What happened on that mountain was that Jesus’ true nature was revealed.  What the disciples finally saw in him was who Jesus was all along.  Who he knew himself to be.  In being transfigured, Jesus shows others who he is.  Turns out, it’s not a change.  It’s a revelation to the world.  A pulling back of the curtain.

And this is why all the suggested hymns for this day and the proper preface are from the feast of Epiphany.  The Transfiguration of Jesus is not a change or a new thing; it is a revelation.  An Epiphany.  

Transfiguration is revealing what is already there, not creating a new pretend thing.  This is Jesus.  Revealed as he truly is.  And in our blindness we have a hard time accepting it.  Revelation is not a threat to reality.  It is not a menace to the created order.  It is just revealing what is already there.  What has been there all along.  Just as God intended.  Transfiguration is pulling back the curtain, to see things and people as God created them to be.  And God said they were good, and so they are good.  Not changed, just revealed.

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 epiphany 5

Epiphany 5, 2026
Isaiah 58:1-12
Psalm 112:1-9
1 Corinthians 2:1-16
Matthew 5:13-20
Preached at Salem Lutheran Church, Glendale CA

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

My name is George Baum, and I’m an Episcopal priest in the Diocese of Ohio, and lifelong friend of Michael Bridges.  I’m delighted to be with you today to talk about salt and light.

I love when this gospel reading comes up, because I get to talk about two of my favorite things: salt and light.  I kid you not.  Salt and light.  You and I need salt and light to survive.  There is salt in every teardrop, every drop of sweat, every drop of blood.  Blood, sweat, and tears . . . salt.  Two thirds of the earth’s surface is covered with saltwater.  Before refrigeration, salt was the only real preservative.  And salt is all over our language, from salty dogs, to throwing salt in your eye, to taking things with a grain of salt.  The salt metaphor goes on and on.  Salt is a crucial part of life, and culture.

And when it comes to food, salt stimulates taste our buds.  Of course, you have certain taste buds that detect saltiness.  But the reason we judge that salt makes something “taste better” is because salt stimulates all your taste buds, by removing bitterness, meaning the flavors of the food are enhanced, because you’re experiencing more fully what’s already there.

As a child, I learned this lesson the hard way, because salt does NOT hide the taste of peas and lima beans.  In fact, quite the contrary!  Instead of smothering the flavor, salt brings out the full flavors of peas and lima beans, in all their delightful nasty wretchedness.  Salt does not improve the taste of food; salt decreases bitterness, and improves your ability to experience the full flavor of food, for better or worse.  We’ll return to salt in a minute.

And light is another powerful image.  We obviously need light to see things, to read, to recognize our location.  But you can push it further and consider that light is why we have any food to put our salt on in the first place.  In today’s 10 second science lesson, the reason we humans have to eat food at all is because we cannot directly process the energy given off by the sun.  Everything we eat in the food chain is food for us because the sun’s light shines on it, or shines on what it eats.  It all starts with light.  And, going back to Genesis, the first thing God creates?  Light.  And it was good.  

Skip ahead to the first chapter of John’s Gospel, In the beginning was the Word . . . “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”  From the beginning, there was light.  From before the beginning!

An interesting thing about light is that it shows us what is there, rather than what we think is there.  The obvious example is our fear of the dark: we’re afraid of what we think is there, not what is there.  Shining a light shows us what is really there . . . a bathrobe hanging on a closet door, a stuffed animal on the floor.  Or, in my home congregation, a squirrel running around the sanctuary after mysteriously knocking over a statue.  Light shows us things as they really are.  We’ll return to light in a minute too.

But, back to Jesus . . . The 5th chapter of Matthew begins like this: When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying “Blessed are the poor . . .”  You probably heard that last week.  The Beatitudes are what comes right before today’s Gospel reading, which we picked up at verse 13, where Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth.”  

At this point, Jesus is talking to the disciples.  They are gathered around Jesus, and he is teaching them.  And he tells them that they are salt and light.  The disciples of Jesus are salt and light.  And that means, as a disciple of Jesus, you are salt and light.

But over the years, there’s been a movement among some Christians to try to be salt and light in the culture.  It’s usually a way of interpreting these verses in a condemning or adversarial way . . . from what I’ve seen at least.  Their point is that Christians are called to be salt and light in the world, and need to get out there and be salt and light.  Purifying salt and blinding light.  This call to go become salt and light typically challenges the world, lays down firm ethical standards, and shows other people their inability to measure up.  And it’s always a call to do something in order to be salt and light: go and become this salt and light.

But here’s an important thing:  this is not what Jesus says.  He does not say go and be, or go and become, or why can’t you just be salt and light in the world?  No, Jesus says you are the salt of the earth.  You are the light of the world.  It is what you already are, not what you go and do.  Salt does not make itself into salt.  It. is. salt.  Its “saltiness” is because of what it already is: salt.  

And, in a similar way, light shines because that is what light does.  Jesus says, you are the light of the world.  You are a city on a hill.  You can cover your light under a bushel, or try to poof it out, or you can let it shine . . . all around the neighborhood.  But what you cannot do is go and somehow become light through your own efforts.  You do not become light the world; you are the light of the world.  

And when we look at today’s first reading, from Isaiah, there’s an interesting little gem hidden in there.  The prophet writes that what God commands is “to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them.”  And then what?  If we do all these things, what?  God will love us more?  We’ll get a gold star for doing what God commands?  No.  As we heard, if we do these things, “Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly.”

Your light shall break forth like the dawn.  You see what that means?  The light is already in us.  Doing these deeds to help those who need us lets that light break forth, and to shine like the dawn.  It’s what we already are; it’s just a matter of letting that light out into the world.  Not covering it up.

Now back to the two points I left hanging a few minutes ago.  Keeping in mind that you already are the salt of the earth, consider this . . . As I said, one of the things salt does is wake up our other taste buds.  Salt on our food increases our appreciation of what’s already there.  Salt gives us the full flavor, the nuances of what we eat.  Salt brings out flavor by helping us to be fully alive to what’s going on.  Salt increases the joy of food, the pleasure of eating, the gift of a meal fully appreciated.  You are the salt of the earth.

And since Jesus says you already are the light of the world?  Light shows us what really is, rather than what we think is real.  Light exposes dangers and dirt and decay, yes.  But light also shows us color, and beauty, and acts of kindness.  Light takes away fear and doubt.  Light gives energy and courage and confidence.  Light—as God declared in Genesis—is good.  Light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it.  You are the light of the world.

So what does that mean for us?  What does it mean for the people of God to be the salt of the earth, and the light of the world?  Well, it could mean that we use our salt to sting people’s eyes.  And it could mean we shine our light on things to condemn and shame those we meet.  Salt and light sure can do those things.  But salt and light do other things so much better.  Bringing out the flavor and appreciation of God’s gift of creation, shining light on forgiveness and reconciliation to those who need to see it.  Helping others to see and taste the goodness of life.

Again, we do not have to do something in order to become salt and light in this world.  Jesus has already declared that we are salt and light.      

But, since Jesus brought it up, how do we keep our saltiness?  (I mean other than by swearing all the time.)  We keep our saltiness by sitting at the feet of Jesus, as his disciples.  How do we keep our light shining?  We stay close to the source of all light.  Being in the presence of Jesus is what makes us salt and light.  And Jesus is present where he promises to be: in the sacraments, and in the community of the gathered people of God.  And that means here, today.

Being in the presence of Jesus is what makes us the light of the world.  Our light shines before others simply by being his disciples.  And here’s a little secret:  being the disciples of Jesus naturally brings out good works in us . . . especially the good works of waking up the world to the abundant flavors of life, and shining a light on what God has done for the world in Jesus Christ.  You are salt;  you are light; and the world needs you.

Amen

YEAR A 2026 epiphany 4

Epiphany 4, 2026
Micah 6:1-8
1 Corinthians 1:18-31
Matthew 5:1-12
Psalm 15

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

Over the years, you’ve heard me talk about the Beatitudes many times.  We have this version from Matthew, with the blessed are the poor and all, and we have the version in Luke where Jesus adds the woes.  And since we’ve covered that so many times, today I want to turn our attention to the first reading, from the prophet Micah.  And specifically the commands from God to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.

The first thing to notice is that these are all actions.  To do, to love, to walk.  They are not feelings, or attitudes, or theological principles.  Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly.  All active verbs which require actual action on our part.  But they’re not all exactly the same kind of thing.  For example “do justice” is a thing to do.  Whereas “love kindness” is an action toward a thing that is already out there.  And “walk humbly” tells us how to do a thing we’re already doing.  So let’s look closer at each one and see if anything jumps out at us.

Do justice.  What does this mean?  As I’ve said many times, it’s hard for us to wrap our minds around biblical justice, because we naturally think of justice as being punitive.  But in the scriptures, God’s justice is always restorative.  It does not seek to punish but rather to make amends.  To make things right.  Whereas we seek justice on the criminal, God seeks justice for the widow and orphan, for the oppressed.  For God, justice is how things are made right, the way they were meant to be.  You could say that while we want to build more prisons, God wants to open more food banks.  Our sense of justice is to punish the robbers, and God’s sense of justice helps those who have been robbed.  

And so, when God commands us to “do justice,” it does not mean arrest more criminals; it means to help the victims of those criminals.  A great example of this is in the parable of the so-called Good Samaritan.  There is not one mention of what happens to the robbers who beat the man.  Instead, we hear of how the Samaritan took care of the victim, and went above and beyond what would be required of him.  That is true justice.  Go and do justice like that.

And then there is the command to love kindness.  You notice how it doesn’t say to go and be kind.  To love kindness implies that kindness is already out there, along with whatever is the opposite of kindness.  Perhaps, cruelty?  Of course, in the abstract, we like to think that of course we love kindness.  But . . . do we?  When a judge decides to be merciful to a defendant, how do we react?  How often do we find ourselves thinking that someone’s punishment should be more severe?  I think we naturally rebel against kindness, at least when it’s for someone else.

In the book of Jonah, at the end of chapter 3, the people of Nineveh repent, and we read, “When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them, and he did not do it.”  Hooray, right?  God has shown mercy and saved the people!  And, “This was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry.”  So Jonah sits in the hot sun and watches the city, and God makes a bush grow up to give him shade, and Jonah is happy.  Then God sends a worm to destroy the bush, and the sun beats down on Jonah and he wishes he would die.  

And God says to Jonah, You are concerned about the bush, for which you did not labor and which you did not grow; it came into being in a night and perished in a night.  And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons?  God was merciful to the people of Nineveh, and it makes Jonah seethe with anger, because Jonah does not love kindness.  And God says to us, Do justice, and love kindness.

And the third phrase from Micah is walk humbly with your God.  Here we see the command is not to do something, but rather how we are to do the thing.  The assumption is that we are already walking with God, and we are to do so humbly.  I think this is a command that doesn’t need a lot of unpacking.  We are already walking with God, and we are commanded to do so humbly.  To—as the saying goes—remember that there is a God and it is not you.

And so we have the three commands:  Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with our God.  But did you notice what came before that?  The context?  In short, God is angry with the people.  And God calls the mountains and the hills to hear the case against them.  God has brought them out of the land of Egypt, and redeemed them from slavery.  God has sent prophets to lead them, and has cared for them and kept them.

And the people respond, With what shall I come before the Lord and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old?  Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil?  Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?  Like, we will do anything that you require of us God!  Just tell us the extreme sacrifice you require and we will do it!

I’m reminded of two popular memes here; one is about men avoiding therapy, and the other is about Americans avoiding the metric system.  For example, “Men will literally dress up like a bat and fight criminals and costumed villains by night instead of going to therapy.”  And the other example, a headline saying, “A sinkhole the size of 6 or 7 washing machines has closed a highway in Missouri.”  Americans will measure with anything rather than use the metric system.

In the same way, we’re willing to do anything except for the simple things God commands, see?  God is mad.  So, what could we possibly do to make things right?  Do you think God wants 10,000 rivers of oil?  Or thousands of rams?  Or my first-born child?  Just tell us God, what is it you want from us?!?

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love kindness and to walk humbly with your God?”  That’s it.  Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.  And we will do literally anything to avoid those three things!  10,000 rivers of oil?  First-born child?  No!  Do justice.  Love kindness.  Walk humbly.  That’s it.

So why are those three things so hard for us?  Why would we offer up absurd examples like 10,000 rivers of oil?  Well, I think it’s as simple as those three things go against our basic human nature.  They go against what society is constantly telling us is the right thing.  To do justice means getting out of the punishment business and getting into the business of making things right, and just, and equitable.  Loving kindness requires us to have empathy and want what is best for others.  And walking humbly with God means admitting that we cannot control what happens in this world and we are not the boss of everyone.

We have heard what God commands of us.  Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly.  May God give us the desire to do those things, and may God give us the ability to carry them out.  God does not need our rivers of oil.  Instead, here is what God commands: when you see oppression, and racism, and inequality, do justice.  When you see cruelty and kindness, reject the cruelty and choose to love the kindness.  And through it all, may you always walk humbly with our God.  We know what God commands.  So let’s get started, together.

Amen