Ecumenical Lenten Service, 2026

MACA Lenten Service 2026
30 Pieces of Silver 
Matthew 27:1-10

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

In all four of the gospel books, Jesus gathers his disciples for what we call the last supper.  They are seated around a table (or all on one side, if you believe Leonardo da Vinci).  And Jesus—seemingly randomly—announces that one of them will betray him.  And how do the disciples respond?  Depending on which gospel account you’re reading, they either ask one another who it could be, or they ask Jesus directly: Is it I, Lord?

Someone will betray Jesus.  Is it I, Lord?  What’s easy to miss here is that by asking this question, they’re all acknowledging that . . . it’s possible.  They’re all capable of doing it.  Someone is going to do the most horrible thing imaginable, and what I want to know is, is it I, Lord?  It could be me.  It could be someone else.  The disciples don’t know who it’s going to be.  But we do.

We know who is going to betray our Lord.  We know his name.  And I can 100% guarantee you that no one in this room is named Judas.  So we KNOW it’s not one of us who will betray Jesus.  We’re off the hook right?  We can live our lives never having to ask, “Is it I, Lord?”  We can confidently say, “It is not I, Lord!”  

And I hope you can see the danger here.  The danger is that we can walk ourselves right into thinking we are better than Judas.  We can even convince ourselves that we are better than all the disciples, because we don’t have to ask Jesus if we might be the one to betray him.  We can point to Judas.  There he is.  Case closed.  Turns out, it is not I, Lord.

However, we could say that people who think of themselves as incapable of doing horrible things are actually just incapable of self awareness and reflection.  The ability to ask ourselves, “Is it I, Lord?” should not be overlooked.  For enough money, you can get a person to do just about anything.  As they say, everyone has their price.  Which brings us to the 30 pieces of silver.

30 pieces of silver sounds like a lot of money to me.  Or, it did until I dug around a bit.  Depending on which kind of coin we are talking about, the estimated value of these 30 pieces of silver, translated into today’s US dollars would be . . . ready?  Between $91 and $441.  At most, it’s like 450 bucks.  Who would betray their friend and Lord for $450?!?  Surely not I Lord!  I am way better than Judas!

When we hear that Judas betrayed Jesus for such a tiny amount of money we feel a bit offended, don’t we?  Like it’s just so crass and transactional.  If he’d done it for lofty ideals and principles, that would be one thing.  If it was because Jesus was actually an immoral and compromised leader, or something like that.  Like we could understand that.  But to turn Jesus over to the authorities for a pittance.  To sacrifice his life for what is essentially a monthly car payment.  It’s just so . . . paltry.

We just wouldn’t do that, would we.  We wouldn’t trade anyone’s life for a few bucks.  Certainly not I, Lord.  People are made in the image of God.  All people are made in the image of God.  Even the people we don’t like are made in the image of God.  You can’t put a price on somebody’s life, if they are made in the image of God.

I recently saw a headline in the NY Times that said, “Americans may turn against the war in Iran if they feel the pinch at the pump.”  So far, there have been over 1,300 people killed in Iran, including hundreds of children.  When 150 schoolgirls are killed in their school, along with their parents who came to rescue them, that’s just a cost of doing business.  BUT if gas prices go up, that’s a whole different thing!  Now you’ve got our attention! We could say that 30 cents at the pump is our 30 pieces of silver.  But, hey, whatever it takes.

Back to Judas.  As we heard, when Judas saw that Jesus had been betrayed, he repented, and brought the 30 pieces of silver back to the priests.  He repented.  Did the chief priests and elders forgive him?  Certainly not!  They said, “What is that to us?” and sent him away.  Did Judas forgive himself?  It seems doubtful, since Matthew tells us he went out and hanged himself.  Did Jesus forgive him?  Hard to say, right?  But here’s a clue:  Judas was still present at the very first Lord’s Supper.  Jesus knew what Judas was going to do, and yet . . . in John’s telling, Jesus washed Judas’ feet.  As best we can tell, Jesus did not reject Judas, his betrayer.

That’s hard to hear, isn't it?  The very one who betrayed Jesus, who sold him out for—at most—$450 was not kept away.  Was not rejected.  Was not banished from the Lord’s Supper.  Was not excluded from the washing of the disciples’ feet.  And maybe that’s where you and I can find good news in the story of Judas and the 30 pieces of silver.

Because if we’re really honest with ourselves, if we’re really willing to do the hard work of being self aware, then the answer to the question “Is it I, Lord?” is yes.  Yes, it is I.  It is I who daily fails to see Christ in other persons.  It is I who daily sins against God and my neighbor.  It is I who does not love God with my whole heart or love my neighbor as myself.  It is I who will throw away another’s life for 30 pieces of silver or 30 cents at the gas pump, because of my own selfish needs and desires.    

I recently ran across this poem by the Argentinian poet Jorge Luis Borges, which seems apt:
    The coin fell on my hollow hand.
    I could not bear it, although it was light,
    and I let it fall. It was all in vain.
    The other said: "There are still twenty nine.”

It’s not easy to hear or to face, but the answer to the question, “Is it I, Lord?” is yes; it is I.  But if Jesus can break bread with his betrayer, if Jesus can wash the feet of the one with 30 coins still in his pocket, then Jesus can welcome you and me as well.  No matter what we have done or where we have been, God’s grace is big enough for us.  God’s mercy is wide enough for us.  And God’s love for us is more than we could ever ask or imagine.  Remember that most of all.  God’s grace, mercy, and love are for you.

Amen
    

Harriet Ross Tubman

Harriet Ross Tubman, 1923, Social Reformer

Luke 11:5-10

Harriet Tubman is rightly honored for her bravery and persistence in freeing people suffering under the burden of slavery in this country.  She worked tirelessly to bring others to freedom.  After escaping to Canada herself, she knew that wasn’t enough, and went back to Maryland many times to free her family and others—over 300 enslaved people walked to freedom because of her commitment.

We’ve heard many stories about the struggles of her life and all the good she did, but I want to focus on something specific she said as she first crossed the border into Pennsylvania, where she was finally free.  She said that, in sensing the feeling of the burden of slavery being lifted from her shoulders, “I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person.”

Obviously, yes, she was.  But the overwhelming change of her status made her doubt.  Because even though she was the same person, the reality around her had changed.  The landscape shifted.  A parallel question might be asked at that same moment: I looked at my freedom to see if I was in the same country.  And yes, she was.  Harriet Tubman did amazing things in her lifetime—a truly great woman.  But she only needed to be great because everything around her was so awful.  She had been so oppressed in the so-called “land of the free” that when she finally was free, she thought that she must have physically changed.  “I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person.”

But I’ve been thinking that the gospel reading assigned for today might actually place our focus on the wrong person.  We hear of the neighbor who won’t give his friend a few loaves of bread, but then “because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.”  When we combine that idea with the life of Harriet Tubman, we might be tempted to take the lesson that we just need to be more persistent in asking for what we need.  Squeaky wheel gets the grease and all that.

But there’s the other player in this gospel story.  The man who refused to help his neighbor who was suffering.  It’s not just the persistence of the one in need; it’s also the evil system of oppression that must be overcome.  Again, Harriet only needed to be great because everything around her was so awful. 

Whether knowingly or not, we create systems that destroy people’s lives.  And as long as those systems don’t destroy our own lives, we’re content to say, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.”  Pairing this gospel reading with Harriet Tubman risks us putting the focus on her tenacity, while ignoring the system that made her have to rise to such greatness.

Yes, we are right to honor Harriet Tubman and all the others who worked so hard to abolish slavery.  But we also need to remember that we live in a country that set that system up in the first place.  And we continue to benefit from all the evils inflicted upon those slaves.  And so my prayer is that we will resist the ongoing efforts to erase the past; that we face it unflinchingly.  And that we make real efforts to see that someone like Harriet Tubman has no need to spend her life freeing people from slavery, and can look at her hands without questioning whether she is the same person.  She was the same person all along—a beloved child of God, born to be as free as anyone else.  May we be inspired by her dedication, and dedicate our own lives to dismantling every system of oppression.

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.