YEAR A 2026 easter sunday

Easter, 2026
Acts 10:34-43
Colossians 3:1-4
Matthew 28:1-10
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

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

Happy Easter!  The Lord is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed.  And . . . so what?  Well, we’re all certainly very excited about it.  We got all dressed up and came to church.  We put up with the priest’s insistence on using incense on the high holy days.  The Lord is risen indeed, and . . . so what?  Why does it matter?  Is it like, score one for Team Christian?  What difference does it make?

Well, I think context is important here.  But first, Easter is the pinnacle of the Church year.  You might think that would be Christmas, based on how our society treats the two holy days.  But Christmas is just a way to get the story started.  The peak, the climax, the reason we even have Christmas is because of Easter.  Easter is the third of what we call the Three Days.  Maybe you’ve heard the word “triduum” before.  It’s a Latin word that means “three days,” and those days would be Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter (which started last night with the Vigil).  The three days are considered one long service in three parts.  If you missed Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, you’re just in time for the final act!

Let me catch you up on what you might have missed this week.  We heard different descriptions of the betrayal, arrest, beating, mocking, and humiliating death of Jesus.  We also heard that story on Palm Sunday.  So if you’ve been to church at all in the past week, you know how we got here today.  And even if you weren’t in church, you probably know how the story goes.

Judas Iscariot offers to betray Jesus for 30 pieces of silver.  He leads the authorities to the garden, and one of the disciples draws his sword.  Jesus says to put the sword back in its place.  Then they take Jesus to the religious authorities, and then to Pilate, who supposedly does his best to release Jesus, but the crowd shouts over and over that they want Pilate to crucify him.  He has Jesus beaten, whipped, and mocked, and sends him off to be crucified.  Jesus’ guy friends all run away in fear, and he is nailed to a cross between two thieves, where he suffers an agonizing death.  Two secret followers bury his body in a tomb.

All along the way in that horrible story, nobody says, “stop.”  Nobody says “enough.”  Everyone just went along with the people in charge.  The religious leaders can’t be wrong.  The government knows what it’s doing.  The soldiers are just following orders.  And nobody says, “But this is wrong.  Enough!”  It’s easy to see how that can happen.  We naturally trust that those in charge must know what they’re doing.  It sure feels wrong to arrest an innocent man, accuse him of treason with no evidence, and execute him in the most brutal way imaginable.  But nobody said, “This is wrong.  Enough!”  When you live in a culture that glorifies death, and spends all its money on the military, this is what you get.  Death rules.  Death wins.  Death has the last word.

And then we come to today.  Act three in our three-day triduum.  And—it turns out—death and violence and cruelty do not have the last word!  The resurrection of Jesus decisively cries out ENOUGH!  In rising from the dead Jesus has overcome death, has destroyed death, has declared that death does not have the last word.  The resurrection of Jesus from the dead is God standing atop all creation and screaming ENOUGH!  

Easter is a declaration of war . . . on death.  Killing innocent civilians can no longer be just “collateral damage.”  Destroying entire neighborhoods is not “mowing the lawn.”  Invading countries just because you can is not the way of Jesus.  Easter is subversive, and it stands against the culture of death.  Jesus has destroyed death.  

And Easter says, ENOUGH!

When bombs are aimed at a school filled with children, and a second bomb is dropped on their parents who come to rescue them, Easter says ENOUGH!  When leaders smile as they brag about epic lethality against civilians, Easter says ENOUGH.  When countries intentionally starve citizens, or cut off electricity to hospitals, or drop bombs on apartment buildings, Easter says ENOUGH!  Easter is a declaration of war on death.  And you cannot embrace the power of the resurrection while glorifying death and destruction.  

The Lord is risen indeed, and that changes everything.  Everything.  You and I can choose daily whether we follow the resurrection way of life, or follow the way of death.  In rising from the grave, Jesus shows us that God chooses life.  Death does not have the last word.  Death has been defeated.  The Church stands with God and says ENOUGH!  Let us also choose life.  Because the Lord is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia!

Amen

YEAR A 2026 good friday

Good Friday, 2026
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42
Psalm 22

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

One of the risks of hearing this story so often is that we think of it as a tale from another time.  Something ancient and distant.  A thing that could never happen today because people are not like that, and faithful religious people are not like that, and governments are not like that, and we are not like that.  We might think, “That could never happen here!”

But everything everyone does in this story is happening all around us, right now.  The names and characters change, but this is not a story from another time.  It is a story for all time, in every time.

Judas decides that making a profit is more important than human lives.  Peter tries to solve a crisis by shedding the blood of an innocent bystander.  The police who come to arrest an innocent man are just “doing their jobs.”  Peter makes boastful claims about fidelity before abandoning the one he promises to be faithful to.  A police officer becomes violent and beats up the defendant for insolence.  The authorities accuse an innocent man of treason and call for him to be executed.  The governor decides to give into the demands of a mob rather than upholding the law.  The mob itself uses religion as a tool to persecute and eliminate their enemies.  The religious leaders deny their own faith, and claim allegiance to a faithless king.  The soldiers take an innocent man up a hill to kill him, after beating and mocking him, because they are just following orders.  The women stay to watch the death of the one they love, while the men have all run away in fear to save their own skins.

This is not a story from another time.  It is a story for all time, in every time.  Every single one of us could step into this story and play any of the parts, except for one.  At the center of this story is Jesus, the innocent lamb who is led away to the slaughter.  And Jesus is where our attention needs to be on this day.  Because as soon as we focus on any other characters in this story, we naturally start to think, “Well I would never . . .”

But yes, you would.  And so would I.  And so would everyone around us.  Because all of this is happening right now, all across the world.  And that is why we need to keep our focus on Jesus, the only answer to everyone else in this story.  This is not a story from another time.  It is happening today.

YEAR A 2026 maundy thursday

Maundy Thursday, 2026
Exodus 12:1-14
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Psalm 116:1, 10-17

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

Maundy Thursday.  We get the word Maundy from the Latin word, maundatum, which is also where we get the words mandatory and mandate.  It’s related to command, and commandment.  All these words give us the notion of being told what to to.  What is required of us.  And in the gospel reading we just heard, Jesus gives us a commandment.  He says it’s a new commandment.  

What is that commandment?  Is it to wash one another’s feet?  No.  Is it not to eat pork?  No.  Is it to kill people who don’t believe like we do in a righteous holt war?  No.  The new commandment from Jesus—the maundatum of Maundy Thursday—is to love one another.  Just love one another.  And a necessary part of that commandment is the “one another” part.  Because you cannot do what Jesus commands without other people.  It requires community.  There is no “me and Jesus” in this commandment.  It requires us.  Together.

On Palm Sunday, we once again ended the 10 o’clock service singing “O Sacred Head Sore Wounded.”  Here’s the final verse of that hymn:

My days are few, O fail not,
With thine immortal pow'r,
To hold me that I quail not
In death's most fearful hour:
That I may fight befriended,
And see in my last strife
To me thine arms extended
Upon the cross of life.

And—as has happened to me before—I was so overwhelmed by that text, my eyes teared up, and I had to stop singing.  I just couldn’t do it.  And even though I could not sing, the song didn’t stop.  Because of the community.  Congregational hymns are not solos, thank God.  We sing them together.  And if the priest or anyone else has to stop singing, the song goes on.  When you cannot sing, the community sings for you.  When you cannot pray, the community prays for you.  When you cannot believe, the community believes for you.

On Palm Sunday, I couldn’t sing, but the song didn’t stop.  When one voice stops, the song is changed, but it still goes on.  In our community, in our worship, in our singing, you add a part that only you can add.  A certain flavor, a certain tone, a certain shakiness, a certain wrong note even!  The song is different because you are there.  When you can’t sing, or when you stop singing, the song changes . . . and it keeps going.  The song goes on, and whether you’re singing or not, it was made different because you were there.

At the close of this service, after we have set aside the reserved Sacrament for tomorrow, we will adjourn for a time into the parish hall for an Agape’ meal.  The word “agape’” means love.  Unconditional love, actually.  And the reason churches have this meal on this Maundy Thursday night is to remind ourselves of the commandment we have received.  That we love one another.  As Jesus said, “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

There will come a day when each and every one of us stops singing.  But the song will go on, because we love one another, just as Jesus loves us.  The song goes on through eternity, and you are a voice in this unending hymn.  Even if you have never sung a note in your life, you are a voice in the eternal choir, and your voice matters.

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 palm sunday

Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday, 2026
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14- 27:66
Psalm 31:9-16

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

That was a very long and difficult reading, which took us through several dark days.  It is especially jarring that we began this day by celebrating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem with the crowd, waving our palms and shouting hosanna.  Only to watch another crowd turn and yell “crucify him!”  And, of course, we mentally separate ourselves from that crowd.  We were part of the first crowd . . . not the second.  So we want to know why this happened.  How did we get here?

And I think the explanation is tucked away in a small comment Jesus makes in the Garden of Gethsemane.  He says, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.”  We usually hear this phrase in our day-to-day life as “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword,” or something like that.  Which really changes the meaning.  It puts us in mind of Genghis Khan or someone.  Killers are gonna get killed.

Or worse, it puts it in the realm of some sort of karma mindset.  Like what goes around comes around.  Or, the country that threatens another country might get bombed, kind of thing.  And we can even think of the reverse as a hedge against violent death.  Like, I’m not going to draw a sword, so that means I’m protected from dying by the sword. 

But I think we need to pull back the lens a bit to get the true meaning here.  Because it’s more systemic than that.  The warning from Jesus is about introducing violence into the system.  Once it is unleashed it only grows.  All who take the sword will perish by the sword, along with everybody else.  It’s like once the swords are out, this doesn’t end well for anyone.

We think we want peace talks and de-escalation and cease fires, and stuff like that.  But what we really want is to inflict overwhelming violence so unspeakable that our enemies cannot strike back.  Obliterate their weapons and declare victory.  But that rarely happens.  More often than not, violence begets violence.  Martyrdom creates martyrs.  Once the swords are out, everyone is in danger.  Or, in the words of Jesus, all who take the sword will perish by the sword.  The solution is not to use a bigger sword and cause greater casualties than our enemies do; the solution is to put away the sword.

But we naturally approach confrontation by just trying to escalate the violence faster than our enemies can.  Be the first one to draw the sword.  Be the first country to have enough weapons to destroy the entire planet 10 times over.  We even see this escalation in our local police departments, when they buy up used military gear and act like they’re going into Fallujah when they’re heading to a domestic dispute in downtown Canton.

Which brings us back to the crowd.  One minute shouting Hosanna, the next minute shouting crucify him.  Somebody took up the sword; and we’re sure it wasn’t us.  But, clearly, violence got into the system.  And all who take the sword will perish by the sword . . . and everybody else with them.

What we see happen each year on this day is that our Palm Sunday celebration gives way to this Passion Sunday tragedy.  Everything was going great.  And then, well . . all who take the sword will perish by the sword.  We cannot hide from the violence once it gets started.  Whether that violence is started by drunk fans at a sporting event, or the leaders of nations drunk on power.  There can be no bystanders once the sword is unleashed.  And the only solution in the midst of violence is to follow the command of Jesus and “Put your sword back into its place.”

My hope is that we will each seek to follow this command, and put our own swords back into their place.  Our swords are not likely to be literal weapons.  They might be the words we speak, or the posts we make online, or the hate we carry in our hearts.  But they are swords nonetheless.  And all who take the sword will perish by the sword . . . and everybody else with them.  Put your sword back into its place.  Jesus offers us a better way, and a better world.  Let us follow his way into that world, that we might finally know God’s peace.

Amen

The Burial of Grant Oberlin

Grant Oberlin
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 23
2 Corinthians 4:16-5:9
John 14:1-6

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

In our Book of Common Prayer (pg. 819), there is a prayer for Church Musicians and Artists.  We started all our music classes in seminary with that prayer, and we begin all our choir rehearsals with it here at St. Timothy’s.  The text of that prayer is this: 

O God, whom saints and angels delight to worship in heaven: Be ever present with your servants who seek through art and music to perfect the praises offered by your people on earth; and grant to them even now glimpses of your beauty, and make them worthy at length to behold it unveiled for evermore; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Three things stand out to me about that prayer.  First, that artists work toward perfecting our praises of God.  I think this is true even for artists who don’t believe in God.  Because—since God is the creator of all that is—any work of art or music gives glory to God.  The created, giving back to the Creator, whether they know it or not.

Secondly, glimpses of God’s beauty.  When we see beautiful things in the natural world, we are witnessing God’s creative power, and—dare I say—God’s creativity.  Would it have occurred to human beings to make trees, or elephants, or even color?  Maybe, but probably not.  When artists witness God’s creativity, they are inspired to make creations of their own.  It is in the nature of artists and musicians to make beautiful things, and also challenging things.  Grant had the ability to see beauty where others didn’t think to look, and I am convinced that such recognition is a gift from God.  And not everyone has it.  Some people look at a painting and can only see a monetary investment or an insurance liability.  Others can look at a discarded piece of junk and see its beauty where others can’t.  People are wired differently, but thankfully we have those who can recognize beauty and can point us toward it.

And then thirdly, the phrase, "worthy at length to behold it unveiled for evermore."  In this world, we see glimpses of God’s beauty, and artists strive to show us more than we can already see, and the prayer asks that one day, they will be deemed worthy by God to see beauty in its entirety.  All the beautiful things, just as God intends them to be seen.

In the reading we just heard, from the gospel according to John, Jesus says, “In my Father's house there are many dwelling places.”  Since we have fairly fixed ideas of what a house is, we might picture a massive mansion somewhere, maybe with marble floors and Viking appliances.  And, for many people, the best part about that image is that it is plural—places, or rooms—meaning we don’t ever have to run into the people we don’t like.

But there’s an interesting connection between the word interpreted as “dwelling places” and a temporary stopping point.  Some scholars say this word monai is something like a place set up to receive visitors traveling through.  Not a private place to kick back and live out your eternal retirement, but a public place, to be welcomed after a long journey, with good food and a place to rest.  When we go where Jesus is waiting, we don’t put out our hand to receive our personal room keys.  Instead, Jesus stretches out his arms to receive us.  A welcome to the party, if you will.

And I am convinced that that very public space will reveal those glimpses of God’s beauty unveiled for evermore.  Spectacular artwork covering all the walls.  Gorgeous music filling the air.  And furniture that no one ever thought to make.  And over in one corner we’ll see Grant Oberlin with a screwdriver in one hand and buckets of paint around his feet, delighting in seeing God’s beauty, finally unveiled in its entirety.  The beauty Grant had glimpses of all his life, and sought to perfect through the gifts and talents God had given him.  And I bet there’s probably a very funny joke he’s waiting to tell us.

But in the meantime, listen to that prayer again:
O God, whom saints and angels delight to worship in
heaven: Be ever present with your servants who seek through
art and music to perfect the praises offered by your people on
earth; and grant to them even now glimpses of your beauty,
and make them worthy at length to behold it unveiled for
evermore; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

YEAR A 2026 lent 4

Lent 4, 2026
1 Samuel 16:1-13
Psalm 23
Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41

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

In the three-year cycle of the church year, this was the Sunday in 2020 when everything changed.  It was the first Sunday when we somehow became a parish that only streamed services, though we had never streamed any services before that.  That Sunday, we had these exact same readings.  Cristin read them to you offscreen, as I sat in the chapel leading Morning Prayer for the first Sunday ever.  Levi played the organ, and Andrew chanted the Psalm in an empty room.  And we all wondered if people could ever return to this little postage stamp of Christianity.  Would people ever get back inside the building we so loved?

And we did come back.  And—of course—some people did not come back.  Some people decided the priest was too political, or someone else was too conservative, or since their parents were no longer around to make them come to church . . . for whatever reason, some people decided this was no longer the place for them on Sundays.

There is no denying that the covid pandemic six years ago changed everything about church.  And we can’t put the genie back in the bottle by wishing it was 1976 again.  So I just want to acknowledge that the world changed six years ago, and the ramifications of those “unprecedented times” are still with us.  Everything changed.  But as you’ll see in our catechism in the Book of Common Prayer, the mission of the Church remains the same as ever: “to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.”  That’s why we’re here, no matter how big or how small.  To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.  And so, we press on.

This morning is called Laetare Sunday, and is intended as a small  break during the season of Lent.  That’s why we get a little festive pink or rose this morning, like it’s supposed to cheer us up, I think?  But the word Laetare means, “rejoice.”  And it’s in the imperative form, so REJOICE is a command, not an option!  And this is why on the fourth Sunday in Lent we get treated to Psalm 23.  It’s a reminder that God is with us in the midst of suffering.  So I just want to spend a moment talking about that familiar psalm.  And specifically, the table that gets mentioned.

We are all familiar with Psalm 23, particularly the King James Version of it.  It’s got all that pastoral language about green pastures and stuff, which is why we hear it every year on Laetare Sunday.  In the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, because God’s rod and staff comfort me.  All is at peace, in the midst of turmoil, because the Lord is my shepherd.

But the table.  Remember that line?  In our prayer book it is phrased, “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me.”  In the King James Version it is, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”  What do you picture when you hear those words?  I have to confess that I’ve always imagined it means, I sit down to a feast in a green valley, while my enemies look on in hunger.  God just keeps ladling out the food for me, while those who trouble me, “mine enemies,” stare on with jealousy.

The two phrases to hold onto here are “before me” and “in the presence of.”  It’s not a table for me.  It’s a table in front of me.  And it’s not next to my enemies; it is in their presence.  They’re already there at the table.  God is inviting us to sit at a table with our enemies.  God is saying, come share a meal with the very people who trouble you.  To put it bluntly:  If you want to eat, you’ve got to eat with people who hate you.

What the heck kind of offer is that?!?  We share meals with our friends.  We invite people we like to dinner.  We don’t imagine sitting down to eat with our enemies.  I thought the peaceful verdant valley was going to be a place where it was just me and God, my shepherd, leading me beside still waters.  I didn’t sign up for this “have a bite to eat with people who trouble me by not voting the same way I do!”

And that’s because our vision of a table is too small.  We imagine a card table for one, set up in an open field, while what God is offering is a huge banquet table, where everyone is invited.  We see this over and over in the parables of Jesus.  A king holds a wedding banquet and invites in all the poor and outcast.  The fishing net gathers up every kind of fish.  The lump of yeast leavens the entire loaf.  The weeds are left to grow among the wheat.  On and on, we hear that God is inviting everybody to the banquet.  No one is left out or excluded.  Even those who trouble me.  Maybe even, especially those who trouble me.

A Lutheran musician friend of mine named Jonathan Rundman has a song called “Meeting Nixon.”  In the chorus he sings, “We’ll be meeting Nixon, meeting Nixon, when we go to that White House in the sky.”  I think it’s one of his best songs, because it makes everyone uncomfortable!   Some people will say there’s no way Nixon is in heaven.  And some people will say there’s no way Jonathan will be in heaven, because he’s a Lutheran.  And some people will say, wherever either of those two are going is not where I want to be going.  It’s a banger song, because, whether you like it or not, everyone is going to be at that same table!

And every time we celebrate the Holy Eucharist, we hear hints of this in the Sanctus, where we sing, with the angels and the archangels and all the company of heaven.  Everybody!  This morning’s man born blind and the religious leaders interrogating him.  The innocent civilians being bombed half a world away and the people who gleefully boast about bombing them.  You and me and all the people who trouble us, gathered around the same table and saying, holy, holy, holy Lord . . . heaven and earth are full of your glory.

The table is bigger than we think, and everyone has a seat at it.  Including you and me.  Again—as our catechism says—The mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.  All people.  No matter who still shows up at church on Sundays, no matter who has drifted away or left out of anger, no matter what the pandemic did to the size and unity of our parish, the mission of the Church has not changed: and it is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.

The table God spreads before us is big enough for everybody.  It’s only our own small thinking that would exclude anyone from that banquet.  You are not excluded from this banquet, and neither are those who might trouble you.   No matter our differences, we have unity in Christ, and that is why we rejoice on this Laetare Sunday.  God’s table is big enough for everybody.  Rejoice!

Amen. 

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.

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

YEAR A 2026 st. timothy sunday

St. Timothy Sunday-2026
Isaiah 42:1-7
Psalm 30:1-5
2 Timothy 1:1–8
John 10:1–10

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

This is the day when we celebrate our patron saint, Timothy.  And the great thing about St. Timothy is . . . well, what do we really know about him?  We mainly know him because he received a couple of letters.  1st Timothy, and then—hold onto your hats—2nd Timothy.  Okay, we know a little more than that.  Most importantly, we know that he was a companion to St. Paul.  And that counts for a lot.  Because we know from our own lives that having companions, friends, supporters, that is what makes great figures able to do great things.

Paul writes that no one was more helpful to him than Timothy.  And he was with Paul when he wrote some of his most important letters.  Around the year 64, Paul left Timothy in Ephesus, to become Bishop of the church there.  30 years later, when Timothy was around 80 years old, he interrupted a procession in honor of the pagan goddess Diana, and then . . . well that leads me to the next thing I want to talk about.

As you can see, on St. Timothy Sunday, we surround ourselves with the color red.  If you look on the front of your bulletin, you’ll see red.  And all the paraments are red, as is this chasuble.  And I encouraged you to wear red to mark the day.  So why all the red?  Well, we use two colors to honor saints in the church.  Typically, we use white when they died a natural death.  And we use red when they were killed or martyred for their faith.

When Timothy broke up that pagan procession by preaching the gospel, he was beaten to death with clubs and stones.  And, again, if you look at the logo on the cover of your bulletin, you’ll see the club and stones.  You’ll also see them on the cushion where the priest kneels.  And you’ll see this logo at the top of our email newsletter each time.  The red background with the club and stones is the sigil of St. Timothy.  The red tells you he was martyred, and the attributes of stones and a club tell you how he died.

Which might naturally lead you to ask, what’s with all the blood and violence and death when we’re gathered on what should be a happy occasion?  Like if we’re not careful, we’ll end up celebrating suffering and death.  And, well, if you think about it, that’s kind of how we are.  We’ve always been this way.  From the medieval public executions, to the unthinkable violence of the Protestant Reformation, and every genocide throughout history.  We see it today with people cheering over the death of Charlie Kirk and Renee’ Good.  Like it or not, we are people who celebrate death and suffering, as long as it happens to the “other side.”

But here’s the thing.  If you take a close look at the statues on our Altar—which I encourage you to do—you’ll see that the things that stand out in the statues of Timothy and Cecilia are the very things that killed them.  With Timothy, he’s got a silver club dangling off his arm, as he stands on a pile of stones.  In the case of Cecilia, she joyfully plays her violin while the silver sword from her beheading glistens at her feet.

This is a common feature of iconography.  Many of the saints of the Church can be identified by attributes of the very things that killed them.  St. Andrew and his X shaped cross, St. Catherine and the broken wheel,  St. Lawrence and a grill, St. Sebastian and the arrows.  The very things that you would expect to be hidden away in shame are brought to the forefront.  Their shame becomes their glory.  In essence, we do this to show that the saints have victory over the things that the world calls powerful.  And the message of defiance is passed on to us:  We must not cower from the things that seek to destroy us.  We must not be compliant in the face of evil.

And here’s a current example.  Our government has sent murderous thugs into an American city where our fellow citizens have been beaten, assaulted, kidnapped, and in at least two cases murdered in cold blood.  Our natural tendency is to look away, or to make excuses.  To have thoughts like, “I’m sure they had it coming,” or even, “This is what happens when you break the law.”  But in case you haven’t made the connection by now, St. Timothy—the Bishop of Ephesus—was breaking the law when he stopped that pagan procession by preaching the gospel, and he was beaten to death with clubs and rocks.  And I have no doubt that some patriotic Ephesians said, “Well, he had it coming.  He should have stayed home and complied.

We can’t go on like this as a nation.  I have clergy friends in Minneapolis who were arrested for protesting at the Minneapolis airport on Friday.  And I can tell you if this were going on in my city, I would be among them.  Because we can’t go on like this.  Our own elected government, beating and murdering Americans because some people don’t like their words and signs goes against everything Jesus preached, and everything our country was founded on.  And we have the sigil of St. Timothy to remind us where this path leads.  Clubs and stones with a blood red background, embroidered on the priest’s kneeler.  We can’t go on like this.

The church must make a stand.  As Bishop Jolly recently said, “Not because we are fearless, but because God is faithful.”  Not because of us, but because of God.  The God who loves every single person, beaten and executed in the name of politics and division.  There is no us and them.  There is only other beloved children of God.  Redeemed by the blood of Jesus, and called into community to announce good news in the face of violence and hatred.

And here is an example where we see most clearly what I have been talking about: in the symbol of the cross itself, on which the Son of God gave up his life.  2,000 years ago the cross was considered the ultimate symbol of shame.  The most agonizing and humiliating way to be put to death.  The loud-and-clear announcement that the empire was in charge, and people were insignificant obstacles to political goals.  No one in their right mind would glorify this humiliating sign of defeat.  No ordinary religious movement would be stupid enough to exalt the instrument of torture on which their leader died.

But that’s what makes faith in Jesus different from every other religion that ever existed.  Where others would hide and diminish the defeat of death at the hands of oppressors, death is not the last word for us.  We give the cross a place of prominence on our Altars and in our lives.  Because it is through the death and resurrection of Jesus that we are reminded that our story is still being written.  

As we honor St. Timothy today, we can see that what matters is not what Timothy did, but what God has done.  For Timothy, for me and you, and for every person who dies at the hands of an angry mob or a brutal regime.  “Not because we are fearless, but because God is faithful.”  I plead with you today to stand up against violence and bloodshed, because we cannot go on like this.  As St. Timothy took a stand for the gospel, may God inspire us to do the same.

Amen