YEAR A 2026 easter 6

Easter 6, 2026
Acts 17:22-31
Psalm 66:7-18
1 Peter 3:13-22
John 14:15-21

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

So, this morning’s gospel text picks up where we left off last week, and that means that—even though we’re still in the Easter season—we’re still hearing about the night before Jesus dies.  And to make sense of this passage, we really need to keep one foot on each side of Easter.  Because, in the timeline of Jesus’ life, he has not yet died, but in the Church year, he has already died and is already risen.  So, we need to keep both of those times in mind when we hear these words from Jesus to his disciples.

And then, just to complicate things a little more, I’ll remind you that this text was written and first read maybe 100 years after Jesus’ death.  AND, here you and I are today, trying to understand it 1900 years after that.  In a sense, we’re all over the map as far as timelines, which fits perfectly with today’s reading from Acts.  

Okay, but back to the text . . .  At this point in John’s gospel, Jesus is giving something of a pep talk to the disciples.  He is trying to encourage them in advance of his departure, and part of his reassurance is that he will be sending the Holy Spirit (or paraklete) to guide them into truth.  Now paraklete is a Greek word that gets translated something like, counselor, or comforter, or advocate.  Literally it means, a person called to your side.  Counselor and advocate, to us, usually get interpreted as having something to do with a court of law.

Many people will tell you this is important because the Spirit is our advocate and counselor before the judgment seat of God.  That is, the Spirit will argue on our behalf so that God will not smite us into everlasting damnation.  Essentially, that way of seeing things would lead us to these two conclusions: 
1. God the Father will judge us, and judge us harshly.  And,
2. God Holy Spirit is like the ultimate lawyer, defending each one of us against the punishments of this harsh judge.

To the first point there, I will just say that we believe—as we say in the Nicene Creed every Sunday—that Jesus will come to judge the living and the dead.  The judging God of popular imagination (you know, with the beard and the lightning bolt) is the Greek god Zeus, not the God of Abraham.  Jesus will judge us, and in case you’ve never heard it before, I’ll give you this spoiler: Jesus loves you.  Enough to give up his life for you.  You do not need a defense attorney when you appear before Jesus, because Jesus is the one who loves and welcomes you!

And, to the second point—that the Holy Spirit defends us in the Court of God—I want to remind you that God is united, not divided.  We do not need for one person of the Trinity to defend us against another.  It is just plain wrong to think that Jesus saves you from the wrath of the Father.  Or that the Holy Spirit argues God out of burning you forever.  It does not even make sense to think that the God who created you really wants to kill you with everlasting fire, and is only thwarted by that pesky Jesus fellow.  Or that God only decides not to punish you because that cracker jack lawyer the Holy Spirit built an amazing case that will get you sprung from the gallows.

But, just to be clear, the Episcopal Church is not a “confessional church.”  And that means, I will not spend much energy telling you what to believe, because we are a broad tent.  And that also means, you are certainly welcome and encouraged to disagree with me any given Sunday.  Or every given Sunday.

So I will not often tell you exactly what you should believe about God; but I will happily tell you what you should not believe about God.  And this is one of those days: I am telling you as clearly as I can . . . Do not believe that our loving Creator’s true nature is one of punishment and damnation.  Do not believe that Jesus saves you from the Father.  Do not believe that the God who created you is actually out to kill you, or that you need some Holy Spirit advocate in the court of the vengeful god Zeus.  There is no basis for believing those things . . . except that everyone else already believes them.

So, with my heretical haranguing out of the way, if the Holy Spirit is not our heavenly lawyer, what then do we do with this idea of the Spirit being an Advocate, or Counselor?  Well, let’s try looking at it from a different perspective.  Jesus says he is sending an advocate.  Now what if Jesus is sending the Advocate to make God’s case TO us?  What if the Paraklete comes to our side to make God’s appeal to our judging hearts?  Jesus says, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”  And notice he says, “another Advocate?”  

Seems that maybe Jesus is the first Advocate, doesn’t it?   Like Jesus came to make the case, to show us the love of God in his words and deeds, and now another Advocate will come to continue to make the case to us.  But, “the case” seems the wrong term, really.  “The case” sounds like legal talk.  Because it’s not a court of law; it’s a romance!

The Advocate is not sent to be our helper in the courtroom, but is sent by God to win our hearts.  What if God loved the world so much that he sent his only son?  Doesn’t Jesus show the ultimate depths of God’s love for you, in that Jesus is willing to lay down his life proclaiming the love of God?  Jesus walks among us, preaches the Good News to us, and then . . . well . . . we don’t want to hear it.  His courtship is rejected in the Court of Human Hearts.

But God does not give up.  Here comes the Advocate to deliver the same message.  And, in a way, the Holy Spirit becomes like the Heavenly Postal-Carrier with a certified letter.  The Spirit has a word for you—the Word for you—and will make repeated delivery attempts throughout all your earthly days.  Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night will prevent this Counselor from the appointed rounds.  The Spirit knocks on your heart’s door with the message of God’s love, and will continue to do so forever, because forever is how long God’s love for you lasts.  Well beyond the grave, I might add.

And do you want to know the contents of the letter the Spirit is trying to deliver?  Of course you do!  I will tell you the most important part of the letter.  Jesus says it himself in today’s Gospel:  Because I live, you also will live.

There’s a lot more to the message, of course, but it all grows out of that main point: Because I live, you also will live.  

And the importance of that message just increases, because of the time confusion that I mentioned in the beginning.  Jesus is talking to the disciples in that room before his death.  But Jesus is also talking to the community in which the words were written 100 years after his death.  And Jesus is also talking to us, gathered here in Massillon 1900 years after that.  

AND, he’s making a promise to all these listeners throughout the centuries that we can fully live our lives right here and now, because he lives.  And at the same time, also making a promise to us about what will happen when our lives are over . . . in all these groups of listeners, across the ages, because he lives, we live, and also will live.  Both in the here and now, and in the final judgement.  Jesus is pleading his case, which the Spirit continues to plead to our doubting hearts:  Because Jesus lives, we also will live.  And, because Jesus lives, we live . . . right here, right now.

The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, comes to each one of us, constantly and continuously delivering the most important message in the universe:  Because Jesus lives, you will live.  Everything else in life grows out of that message.  It is a message of love, a message of forgiveness, a message to live your life without fear and trembling.  You don’t need an advocate to plead your case in the judgment court of Zeus and his thunderbolts.  But you do need an Advocate to plead God’s case before the judgment of your own doubting heart.

We cannot come to Jesus unless the Father draws us.  And the Father draws us by sending the Son, and the Advocate to plead with our hearts.  And the Father, the Spirit, and the Son together draw us to this altar today, where with the saints of every time and place—with all of them—we meet the risen Lord in the breaking of the bread.

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 easter 5

Easter 5, 2026
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
Acts 7:55-60
1 Peter 2:2-10
John 14:1-14

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

There are a lot of time jumps in today’s readings.  While you and I are still in the Easter season, today’s gospel reading takes us back to what we call the Last Supper, before Jesus is put to death.  

And we’ve got another jump in that first reading we heard today.  Stephen, the first Christian martyr, is stoned to death by the religious leaders, which happens long after the resurrection of Jesus.  As far as the flow of the narrative, we’re kind of all over the map.  But there’s a thread running through the readings today.  

The first reading, from Acts, recounts the stoning of Stephen.  Brutal, and horrible, and senseless.  The religious leaders’ reaction to the gospel is unthinkable in our country today, but it still goes on elsewhere in our world.  Plenty of places in fact.  Christianity is still a dangerous road to travel, and we are offered no guarantees of protection.  As Jesus says in today’s gospel, “Trust in God; trust also in me.”  Stephen did exactly that, and his dying words are recorded as, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.  In today’s Psalm we heard, “Into your hands I commend my spirit, for you have redeemed me, O LORD, O God of truth.”  And, you probably remember, in Luke’s gospel, Jesus says from the cross, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”  Into your hands, I commend my spirit.  For Stephen, for the Psalmist, and for Jesus.  The connection I want us to see here is the continued unfailing trust in God to receive our spirit.  When it all comes down to it, that is the most important part of our faith journey: trusting that God will indeed receive our spirit when it matters most.

So now, back to this gospel text.  Keep in mind what happened right before this reading we just heard.  Jesus has washed his disciples’ feet, predicted his own death, and told Peter that he will deny him three times.  Then Jesus says, “Do not let your heart be troubled.”  Huh?  After all that crazy information, do not let your heart be troubled?

But the language is important here.  Because “your” is plural, and “heart” is singular.  He’s talking to everyone in the room, but he’s talking as if they have just one heart . . . one collective heart—a heart which is not to be troubled by what he is saying.  Then he gives them the reason not to be troubled: “Trust in God, and trust in me.”  It gets translated into “Believe in God,” in our translation, but the original word, pisteuo, is closer to confidence and trust, than it is to belief.  

And this distinction is important, because there really is a difference between belief and trust.  For example, I believe in democracy; but I trust in gravity.  My belief in democracy might influence my decisions and choices and attitudes, sure.  But my trust in gravity determines how I live my life.  From picking up a glass, to going outside without a rope, gravity is something you trust, and it would not usually occur to you to do otherwise.  Trusting in God and in Jesus is not something you choose to believe intellectually; it is not some preference for one thing over another.  In a sense, we cannot help but trust in Jesus.  It’s just the way we are.  How we see the world, whether we know it or not.

And then Jesus follows up the Trust statement with something that seems puzzling to us, I think.  And it seems puzzling because it has been interpreted certain ways for so long that we automatically think we know what it means.  He says, “In my Father's house there are many dwelling places.”  We have fairly fixed ideas of what a house is.  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, as I’ve told you before, there is 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 then here’s the part of this little story that I really like.  Jesus ends his flowery speech with, “And you know the way to the place that I am going.”  I imagine the disciples shoving hands in their pockets, kicking the dirt, not wanting to be the one to ask the obvious question that they’re all thinking.  But leave it to Thomas to speak up.  Leave it to Thomas to be the one who wants reliable information and a road map.  Leave it to Thomas to look up and say, “‘Know the way’?  We don’t even know where you’re going!  How can we possibly know ‘the way’?”  

And then Jesus says, “Ahem.  People?  I AM the way!  Remember me?  The way, and the truth, and the life?  You don’t have to know where you’re going, because you know the way.”

Now of course, this is contrary to everything we learn about directions.  You get directions as a means to get where you’re going.  Knowing the way is never the point, is it?  Tell me the destination, and then “the way” is just details, because there are many paths.  I might take the 21 or the 77.  Just tell me the destination.  Lots of people view Christianity in exactly this way.  “I want to ‘go to heaven’, so tell me the behavior-modification plan that will get me to the desired destination, and I’ll take it from there, Jesus.”

But Jesus stands this on its head and says, you do not need to know the destination; you just need to know the way.  Trust in God and trust in me.  If you know the way, you’ll end up where you’re supposed to, even though you don’t know the destination.  And you—the collective you—you know the way.  All of us together are on a journey with Jesus: destination, unknown.  But we know the way.

It’s hard to believe we know the way right now, isn’t it?  We look at where we are and where we want to be, and it doesn’t seem like we know how to get there.  Show us the way to being able to have civil conversations with our family and friends again.  Show us the way to feeling safe in a grocery store or a shopping mall, let alone a school.  Show us the way not to wake up panicked in the middle of the night wondering if we’re going to have a job tomorrow.  Show us the way to get people to come back to church again.  Show us the way, Lord!

I can’t help but think this gospel text would be heard so much differently back in the 50s or 60s.  Back when there was a discernible middle.  Back when NASA had a room full of people in short-sleeve button down shirts and matching glasses, using slide rules to land a man on the moon.  Back when vaccines were widespread and trusted and effective.  Back when we knew the way, right?

And now, here we are in 2026, where almost half our citizens don’t trust science or data or medical professionals about anything.  In a world where politicians try their darnedest to clear out the middle and get everyone to yell from the extreme corners.  In a virtual world of AI and deep fakes, and a physical world of ongoing massacres in multiple countries.  This is where we are together right now.  This is the world in which we live, together.  So now you tell me, how do we get out of this together?  We don’t even know where we are going.   HOW CAN WE POSSIBLY KNOW THE WAY?!?

And Jesus says to us, just as he says to Thomas:  I am the way.  We don’t know where we are going, but Jesus is the way.  Trust in God and trust in me.  If you know the way, you’ll end up where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t know the destination.  And you—people of St. Timothy—you know the way.  You are on a journey with Jesus: destination, unknown.  But you know the way.

We know the way to the Father because Jesus is the way.  With Stephen, and the Psalmist, and Jesus, we pray that God will receive our spirit.  Do not let our heart be troubled.  We do not need to be afraid, because Jesus is the way.  

It’s true:  We do not know where we are going, but we are going there together.  We are going there together.  We disagree, and we stumble, and we walk in darkness, but we are walking together.

And as we walk together, Jesus walks beside us.  And that is why we are going to be okay.  Because we know the way.  And when we have arrived at that unknown destination, God will receive our spirit, and say to us, all of us, “Welcome home, weary travelers!  Do not let your heart be troubled, because you have known the way all along.”

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 easter 3

Easter 3, 2026
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17
1 Peter 1:17-23
Luke 24:13-35

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

There are a few Sundays in the Church year when the best sermon following the Gospel is simply to point at the Altar, and sit down.  This is one of those Sundays.  “He had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”  Point at the Altar.  Any questions?

But, let’s start with this.  “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”  What kept them from recognizing him?  I think it might be helpful to think about how anesthesia works here.  Doctors give you anesthesia to dull your sense of pain, so that they can do difficult things.  The anesthesia is what allows them to do what has to be done to, hopefully, make you better.  To heal you.

In a similar way—for our own self-preservation—grief acts like an anesthetic.  The pain of deep loss is sometimes shut out by shutting down.  The process of mourning can make us oblivious to what is around us, so that we might have time to be healed.

In today’s Gospel reading, two disciples are walking down the road, talking about the awful things that have happened in the past few days.  Their friend and beloved Rabbi has been brutally executed and buried in a tomb.  And they have heard rumors of his rising from the dead.  And they are terribly confused and heartbroken as they walk together on the road. 

And, suddenly, a stranger appears to them, and starts walking with them.  (And this is where the anesthesia comes in.)  “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”  The very person they are talking about, the resurrected Christ of God is suddenly walking with them, the one they were just talking about, and they do not know it is Jesus because “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

They’ve been kept from seeing what is obvious to us.  They have been “put under,” in a sense by grief, and they don’t recognize the person who is talking to them.  As they are walking together, the disciples are able to very clearly recite the expectations they had of Jesus.  It’s almost a credal statement when you look at it:

Cleopas says, “Jesus of Nazareth, was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. It is now the third day since these things took place.”

It’s a great opening for a creed, right?  But it’s missing the good parts.  It uses “hope” in a past tense: we had hoped.  And it proclaims the tomb empty, but that does nothing to make hope present tense.  They’re confused, and disappointed, and under the anesthesia of grief.  They are being prevented from seeing that it is Jesus they are telling all this to. 

And it seems kind of unfair that Jesus says to them “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”  That’s like the doctor taunting you for not noticing that she is performing surgery on you.  Can the disciples be blamed for not knowing that it is Jesus when, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”?  It’s not their fault they don’t recognize him!

But a closer look reveals that Jesus is not taunting them for not recognizing him on the road.  No, what Jesus is talking about is their inability to connect the dots.  To close the deal.  They’ve got the setup perfectly, they have all the pieces, but they’re missing the main point.  When Cleopas rattles off that narrative creed thing, he stops at the grave, and that is why he uses “hoped” in the past tense, saying, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”  All the clues are laid out in front of them, but their grief stops them from seeing the crucial connection.  In a sense, they don’t believe the resurrection because they didn’t expect the pain and suffering of the Messiah.

The disciples were under the impression that Jesus cannot be the Messiah because he has suffered and died, rather than ride into Jerusalem on a white stallion.  These disciples, like many, figure that the Messiah cannot suffer and die and then still be the one in whom they had hoped.  And that is why Jesus asks them, “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?"

And so now, under the anesthesia of not recognizing the resurrected Jesus, Jesus will do what needs to be done.  He begins with Moses and all the prophets, and shows them how the scriptures point to exactly what has happened.  Jesus can explain to them why he is the answer to their hopes.  Why he is the one to redeem Israel.  And, because they do not recognize Jesus, they can take all this in, without the distraction of the resurrection.  Because of the anesthesia, right?

They’re catching on, but they still don’t see Jesus.  They can tell something is happening as he talks to them (they say that their hearts were burning within them), but the one talking is still a stranger in their eyes.  Still the only one in Jerusalem who doesn’t know what has happened these past few days.  And then they come to the place where the disciples are planning to stay the night, Jesus acts like he’s going to walk on.  They plead with him to stay the night and he agrees.

So, they all go inside, and they sit down at a table together.  And then . . .  “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.”  You’ve heard that around, right?  As in, every Sunday morning, right?  At the table with friends, blessed the bread and broke and gave it to them.  Yes, that’s familiar, because we’ve heard it before.  But this part is different:  

Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.  Isn’t that the strangest thing?  It’s like as long as they just think he’s some stranger who hasn’t heard about what has happened, he is with them physically.  As soon as they recognize him to be Jesus, in the breaking of the bread, he disappears . . . .

Now granted, it sounds a little trippy, but it’s almost as if the bread becomes his body, isn’t it?  They can see Jesus in the breaking of the bread.  They recognize Jesus in the bread.

And when they get back to the other disciples, they tell what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.  But there’s an interesting thing that is left unsaid in this whole story.

When Jesus meets the disciples on the road, they are heartbroken and confused.  At no point in the story does it say the disciples became happy and understood.  At no point does the text say that Jesus made everyone live happily ever after.  It’s not as if the presence of Jesus replaces or ignores our sadness and pain.  

Jesus comes to meet them on their walk, in the midst of their blinding sorrow and pain.  And yet their hearts are burning within them as he opens the scriptures to them.  Meeting them where they are; not judging them in their blindness.  And in the breaking of the bread, they recognize the risen Lord who has been with them all along. In the breaking of the bread, they recognize Jesus, who has been with them all along.

Jesus does not take away pain and sadness.  Jesus introduces hope and comfort.  The promise of the resurrection brings hope.  The presence of Jesus, made known to us in the bread, brings comfort.  Can we have hope while still being sad?  Certainly!  Can we experience comfort while still being in pain?  Most assuredly.  And in the bread and wine, the resurrected Christ is made known to us, no matter our present circumstances.

As we heard, the disciples were confused and grieving on their journey.  Maybe you have that today as well: some sadness, or worry, or bitterness that acts like an anesthesia, keeping you from hearing clearly the resurrection story.  For those disciples, breaking bread with Jesus opened their eyes to see that he was with them, had been completely present with them on their walk, and has indeed been raised from the dead.  You and I share their recognition of the Risen One, here today.

I would like you to listen to today’s Collect one more time:
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. 

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 easter 2

Easter 2, 2026
Acts 2:14a,22-32
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 20:19-31
Psalm 16

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

Today is the second Sunday of Easter.  And every year on this day we get the same gospel reading.  The story of Thomas and Jesus and the other disciples.  Every year.  So why is that?  I think the answer might be that it is the best follow-up to the resurrection of Jesus.  Like, last Sunday, Jesus rose from the dead.  And the first question we should ask ourselves is, “What now?”  Jesus has risen from the grave, and this good news should be shouted from the rooftops, and the disciples are doing what?  Hiding behind a locked door.

And Thomas—who notably was not hiding behind a locked door that first Sunday—missed the whole thing.  We don’t know where Thomas was, but we know that he was not there hiding with the others.  And when Thomas sees the other disciples, they exclaim to him, “We have seen the Lord!”  So . . . why are they still hiding?  Everyone heard Jesus had been raised, and now the hiding disciples have had a personal encounter with Jesus, and . . . they’re still hiding.  There’s a part of me that totally understands why Thomas couldn’t believe unless he saw Jesus with his own eyes.  Because seeing Jesus sure doesn’t seem to have made a difference to the other disciples.  “We have seen the Lord!”  So . . . why are you still hiding?

And so Thomas lays out the terms of what it will take for him to believe.  "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  I don’t take this as defiance or doubt.  I take it as a simple statement of reality.  Not “I refuse to believe,” but more like, “Given the lack of change in all of you, I cannot believe.”  And after this statement from Thomas, we move to the next Sunday and the disciples are—surprise!—hiding in a locked room.  And what does Jesus do?

He comes to them anyway.  And he gives Thomas exactly what he says he needs.  He meets Thomas where he is, and provides him with the very things he says he needs to have faith.  To see the mark of the nails and put his hand in his side.  It’s as if Thomas had prayed for the gift of faith, and Jesus shows up in person to give it to him.  And Thomas makes a decisive statement of faith: My Lord and my God.  Jesus gives him what he personally needs in order to believe.

But let’s go back to what the disciples say to Thomas when he arrives in the locked room.  “We have seen the Lord!”  And, again . . . why are you still hiding?  You have experienced the resurrected Jesus in person.  He spoke to you and said “Peace be with you.”  Twice.  He breathed on you and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”  He specifically said, "I send you," so why are you still hiding a week later?  And I think it’s a question we can ask ourselves after Easter as well.

We too have seen the risen Lord.  We too have received the gift of the Holy Spirit.  Everything has changed for us.  So why are we still hiding in ways that suggests nothing has changed?  And I don’t mean you; I mean all of us.  We continue on with our petty squabbles and imagined slights.  We nurture our political divides and partisan sensitivities.  We keep forming our little clubs and cliques that exclude others.   We increase our attachment to lifeless traditions and an aging building.  We give in to the fear of scarcity and put ourselves ahead of others.  We too have seen the Lord, and everything has changed.  So . . . why are we still hiding.  

Thomas says aloud what he needs in order to be changed by Jesus.  He knows what he lacks and he speaks it in front of the assembly.  Unless I can see what I need to see, to experience what I need to experience, without Jesus coming to me, I will not believe.

What is it that we need in order to be transformed?  What are our doubts?  What are the obstacles to our faith?  What stands in the way of each of us saying, “My Lord and my God?”  Or, put another way, how would we finish Thomas’ statement, “I will not believe unless I see . . . ”

We too have seen the Lord.  We too have received the gift of the Holy Spirit.  Everything has changed for us.  So why are we still hiding in ways that suggest nothing has changed?   Jesus met Thomas where he was and gave him exactly what he needed in order to be transformed.  I ask you to pray that Jesus will meet us where we are and give us exactly what we need in order to be transformed.  Jesus is risen, and this changes everything.  May this good news change us as well, so that we might change the world in his name.  We have seen the Lord, so let’s unlock the door, together.

Amen

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.