May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be always acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

It is good to be with you all this morning. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Canon Jody Howard, and I’m Canon to the Ordinary here in the Diocese of Tennessee. I know a good number of you, but some of you I’ve never met before, and it is good to be here.

I was talking with Josh this morning, and I shared that this is my first time here at Holy Trinity serving in a service. Part of the reason I haven’t been here in seven years of diocesan ministry is because of the faithfulness of your now-retired priest, Father Bill Dennler. I often go to congregations in transition on Sunday mornings, and this is the first time you all have been in transition, so we certainly give thanks for his ministry. But I’m thankful to be able to be with you here today, and I will be meeting with your vestry following the service.

I’m thankful to be talking about the readings we have here today. I think they raise two issues that are very common for Christians—two concerns—and they’re interrelated. I think we have one concern in part because of the other.

The first concern, I believe, is this: how can we be good enough? In the Gospel it says it is enough for the student to be like the teacher. So when we think about that—Jesus as our teacher, Jesus as our paradigm, Jesus as the pioneer and protector of our faith—how can we be like Jesus? That’s been intimidating, to ask that question. How can we be like Jesus?

And then the second question that our readings raise for us this morning, I believe, is the question of judgment—God’s judgment. It is something that, at least for Episcopalians—maybe not for all varieties of Christians, but at least for Episcopalians—is a challenging thing to talk about, because we feel a little bit ambivalent about the idea of judgment. And I understand it.

I’m going to tell you a story about my seminary career. I took our ordination exams, our General Ordination Exams, and in the scripture section, the question we had was on the wrath of God. I thought to myself, boy, I’ve got to be careful answering this question, because I don’t want somebody to be put out by me talking about the wrath of God. But I got my response back, and you know what they wrote? “Basically good exegesis, though the answer displays a tendency to minimize the wrath of God.” I was afraid to actually talk about God’s wrath over wickedness and sin, because I was afraid that it would put off the readers—and boy, I got caught. I got caught on that. My answer had a tendency to minimize the wrath of God.

So I think it’s natural for us, though. Because if we think it is hard to be like Jesus, and if we think we need to be like Jesus to avoid the judgment, then it’s natural that we would be anxious about the idea of God’s judgment. And I think our readings today—in particular our Gospel text and the text from Romans—have something to say to us that is both timely, when we look at the state of the world, and reassuring about our personal faith and the ways in which we can impact the state of the world.

In the Gospel text we do hear about judgment. Jesus says, “I’ve come to bring a sword, not to bring peace to the earth, but to bring a sword.” That sounds like judgment. And yet I want to share with you that this is a very specific kind of judgment, because Jesus then goes and starts talking about the separation that’s going to happen: father against son, mother against daughter, families divided.

Jesus is not necessarily talking about God’s wrath being poured out in this section. Jesus is talking about the sword as a method of discernment, dividing some people who choose to live in one way from those who choose to live in another way. Jesus is talking about people who choose to follow the way that He is sharing with His disciples, versus those who reject that way of life, that alternative to the way the world works.

This, in fact, is what Paul is talking about in this section of his letter to the Romans. Paul is talking about how we can actually be those students who can be like the teacher. It’s not left up to our own strength, but it’s because we have been crucified with Christ; and having died with Him, this body of sin has been put to death, and we live with Christ—which means we live in a new way.

Now, I grew up in a particular tradition. We stopped attending church when I was very young. It was an evangelical tradition, and for me, in the past, when I read this passage and I saw “body of sin,” my mind immediately went to personal, individual sins. But what’s interesting about this text is that Paul actually doesn’t seem to be primarily talking about that. That’s sort of pulled into it, but the body of sin that Paul’s talking about is much bigger.

St. John Chrysostom, the great Eastern Orthodox bishop and preacher, talks about this in his sermon. He says Paul is not talking about our bodies as sinful; instead, Paul is talking about the body of sin as “the whole of iniquity”—in other words, all sin, everything that is in rebellion against God.

So think about it like this. We talk about being part of a body; that’s the way Paul’s using this. It is about being part of a group, part of systems, part of a way of life. And that is what is put to death on the cross when we are crucified with Christ: the body of sin. Not our individual selves, but the body as the way in which we relate to the world, the way in which we relate to one another—being alienated from one another and alienated from God.

You know, our bodies are the way we know the world. It’s the way we touch things. It’s the way we impact things. There’s hardly any other way except through our bodies—even if it’s through the written word, even if it’s through the spoken word, we require our bodies to be able to impact the world. And it is through our bodies that the world impacts us.

So when Paul is talking about this body of sin being put to death, what he’s saying is that the ways of the world that draw you away from one another and away from God—these things have been put to death, because we have been crucified with Christ. And the dominion of death, of which the body of sin is a representative and a collective naming, is no longer something to which we are enslaved. Instead, being raised with Christ, we become part of the alternative: the body of Christ and the kingdom of God, which is all about a different way of living than the ways of the world.

The ways of the world call people away from one another, away from community, toward oppression, toward abuse. Instead, we’re called to the kingdom of God, in which all are beloved, in which we recognize the image and likeness of God in all the people with whom we come into contact. We are called to the kingdom of God, in which we don’t lord it over one another. We’re called to the kingdom of God, in which we love one another.

And this judgment, which Christ is exercising with the sword, is all about the people who will choose to be part of this loving kingdom, this loving way that God offers, versus those who believe the old ways—the ways of oppression, the ways of mistreating others, the ways of enriching themselves on the backs of others. The people who love that way are going to be separated from the people who love a way of justice, the way of love, the way of equality.

So this body of sin has been put to death on the cross with Jesus. And it’s important that it happens with Christ, because, as Chrysostom says, being crucified with Christ—and not simply crucified by the wickedness of the world, but crucified with Christ—draws our baptisms to the cross. In other words, it connects our unity with Christ to the work that Christ has done, and it means that we can live in newness of life.

So it means that it’s not all about what we can do. It is very hard to be perfect. Have you ever tried? Have you ever tried to be perfect?

There was a sitcom that was on for several years called The Good Place. I don’t know if any of you saw it, but the whole premise of the show was that people were in this sort of afterlife, and they think they’re in the equivalent of heaven when they begin. It turns out—we’re not going to go into detail—it turns out it’s not quite right, and they end up in this whole scenario. They’re talking with the entities that are sort of in charge of this place, and they discover, in the course of things, that the way the world is now makes it impossible for people to get enough points to actually go to the real Good Place. They talk about how somebody went to the supermarket and bought a tomato—they went to the grocery store and bought some fruit and vegetables—and because of the way it was produced, they got so many negative strikes against them that they could never make it up.

That’s how hard it is in our world to be perfect, because we’re always implicated. We’re implicated in systems that are unjust, we’re implicated in things that take advantage of people, we’re implicated in things that we as individuals do not have the power on our own to set right. And yet we’re called to be like our teacher.

So there’s hope. Because the thing is, Jesus doesn’t say to us, “You, individual Christian, you have got to set all these things to right before your tally markers will be enough to get you where you want to go.” That’s not what Jesus says to us. Jesus says, “I have called you friends.” Jesus says, “You’re my beloved.” Jesus says that we are already forgiven. We just need to live life and be strengthened.

And if we can do that—if those of us who recognize that our old selves, who were enthralled to the ways of the world, have been put to death in Christ—then we have a new way that we can live. If we all do that, then the body of Christ provides an alternative to the ways of the world. We’re not called to fix everything, but we’re called to be a witness. We’re called to provide an alternative. We’re called to show people that things don’t have to be the way they often are.

One of my favorite theologians, a man named Stanley Hauerwas—who for a time was an honorary canon theologian at our cathedral—has this well-known saying where he says the first task of the church is to make the world know that it is the world. In other words, the first task of Christians as followers of Jesus is to let the world know that things don’t have to be the way they are. When we look around, things don’t have to be the way they are when they draw us away from unity with one another and away from God. Things do not have to be that way. We can be citizens and witnesses to a different kingdom and a different way of life.

Jesus teaches us how to do this. A number of years ago, I was reading a story about a Methodist missionary, E. Stanley Jones, talking about his tenure in India. He made an observation about how he let go of arguing for all the minutiae of the Christian faith with the folks he encountered. Instead, he focused on the cross—the idea that in Jesus, God loved the world so much that not only did God come to be with us in Christ, but Christ went to the cross for us. And he used this phrase that really enchanted me. He called the cross “Christ’s professorial chair.”

Christ’s professorial chair. So I did a little bit of research, and I tracked that phrase down to Saint Catherine of Siena, a Roman Catholic mystic. That’s what she says: she says the cross is Christ’s professorial chair, upon which He teaches us doctrine written in letters on His body, too large for anyone—even the illiterate—to miss, and for even those of poor sight not to see.

In Jesus we see God’s love. In Jesus we see the way we’re supposed to be and who we’re supposed to imitate. And it’s not about perfection; it’s about love and witness. We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to follow Jesus. That’s it.

And we’ve already been forgiven, and that is what gives us the power and the energy and the thankfulness to follow Jesus—because God has already loved us. God has already forgiven us. God already knows everything we have done, and anything we’re capable of—the worst things we’ve done, the worst things we’re capable of—and God says, “I love you anyway, because you belong to me. You are mine, in my image.”

So sometimes we get uncomfortable with this idea of judgment. And yet there are things in the world that deserve God’s judgment, God’s wrath—the things that divide us from one another, the things that harm the creatures of God. And Paul recognizes this, and he uses these phrases throughout—twice in Romans and once in Philippians. He talks about the body of sin. He talks about the body of death, which is related to the dominion of death, which is really about the effects of sin—sin causes decay and death because it draws us away from God and away from one another. And then the last is the body of lowliness, or humiliation, in Philippians, and there Paul’s talking about our frailty as human beings.

And the thing is that Jesus sets us free from these. To the extent that we are unable to be set free—our human frailty, we can’t be set free from—but we do not have to be bound by it, because Christ is in it with us. Christ is in it with us.

You know, Paul says that death no longer has dominion over Him, which by its very nature means that Christ so identifies with us—God so identifies with us in Jesus—that Christ even endured death on the cross. Christ endured the worst sort of thing that we could ever experience, to be with us and like us, one of us, so that we can be with Him and learn what it means to imitate Him. It is a wonderful and joyous thing to know that this does not depend upon us, but is a gift given by God.

So, coupled with this aversion to judgment, there’s often an aversion in our day to some of the violent imagery in scripture—the idea of crucifixion, for example. When I was in seminary, I read a book by an African American womanist theologian named JoAnne Marie Terrell, called Power in the Blood. She was talking about the way in which some of the violent imagery in scripture, some of the hymnody that uses this imagery, is so important to communities that have endured oppression. She talks about the critiques of it, which she says are valid from a certain perspective. They’re valid when you think about people using this imagery who have not either endured oppression or identified with those who have—because that’s the key about Jesus. Jesus did what Jesus did to identify with us as human beings. But the thing is, this imagery is important for people who are going through hard times.

A number of years ago, you may have heard of an attack, a terrorist attack, on a Coptic Egyptian cathedral in Cairo. A terrorist attack. It was amazing to me, because about a week afterwards they went ahead and had the services they were having during—I believe it was their Holy Week—and I heard a sermon given by the Dean, the equivalent of the Dean of their cathedral. It was called “A Message for Those Who Are Killing Us,” and the theme of the sermon, he said, was: “Thank you.”

Now imagine that. “Thank you.” That was the message. But when he unpacked it, (I’m paraphrasing), it was, “Thank you for allowing us to imitate our Lord.” And then he went on, and he said, “You don’t understand what you have done, because you’re living by the ways of a different world. If you only understood the way of Jesus, you would know that this was wrong. But thank you for allowing us the opportunity to imitate our Lord.”

So this is what the sword is all about in Matthew’s Gospel: dividing the folks who recognize the way of Jesus, and the fact that God is waging war with peace against the world that wages war with war. God is waging war with love against the world that embraces hate. And God invites us to do the same by imitating Jesus.

That hymn, “Power in the Blood,” whose first verse you may recognize: “Would you be free from your burden of sin?” Would you be free from the body of sin—not just individually, but corporately, societally? “There’s power in the blood, power in the blood.” “Would you o’er evil a victory win? There’s wonderful power in the blood.”

Another hymn that uses some of this imagery was written by William Cowper (pronounced “Cooper”), an English Anglican. He wrote hymns with John Newton, who wrote “Amazing Grace.” This hymn is called “There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood,” and he wrote it when he was in a deep depression, in despair; writing it encouraged him. He struggled with what we would probably call clinical depression his entire life. This is the first verse of that hymn—it’s in Lift Every Voice and Sing II, Hymn number 39: “There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s veins; and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”

We shouldn’t shy away from what Jesus has done for us on the cross. We shouldn’t shy away from the idea of judgment when we think about it as distinguishing between the ways that divide us from one another and from God, and the ways that bring us together. The good news for us today is that we don’t have to be perfect. We just have to love. And doing that will be the witness that the world needs—to know that there is a different way.

Amen.

Resources:

I came across a lot of interesting resources while preparing this sermon, some of which I referenced, others of which were in the background. I’m sharing them below.

Commentaries:

I always consult the New Oxford Annotated Bible, the Jerome Biblical Commentary for the 21st Century, and the Sacra Pagina series (Romans & Matthew)

A relatively new commentary I consulted and enjoyed a great deal was Susan Eastman’s Commentary on Romans from the Interpretation Bible Commentary series.

I also read the applicable parts of Origen’s Commentary on Romans, Peter Abelard’s Commentary on Romans, and John Chrysostom’s Homily XI on Romans 6:5.

The quote from E. Stanley Jones was first encountered in a book that I’ve lost track of, but it was written by some current Methodist pastors. The background comment of St. Catherine of Siena was from my commonplace book, but was quoted in Reclaiming Catherine of Siena: Literacy, Literature, and the Signs of Others by Jane Tylus, p. 256.

[Note, if you would like to watch the video of the worship service, the YouTube video is below. Go to 12 minutes to hear the Gospel and the sermon following]

It’s good to be with you all again here at St. Ann’s this morning, and I’m happy to be talking with you about our text today. I want to highlight a theme that really emerges from our Old Testament lesson from Genesis and our Gospel text—although you can certainly, after this morning, look and see it also in our Epistle lesson. But I want to begin talking about the theme of laughter, and what laughter tells us about the character of God: how the character of God is revealed to be consistent through Scripture, and is revealed most fully in Jesus.

So, laughter is something that’s a universal characteristic of human culture—and in fact, there are other primates that seem to laugh—but for humans, laughter functions in various ways. I think about Stephen Colbert talking about growing up in a family with eleven children, and how he said that his family was a “humor-cracy”: the person who was the funniest at the time in the room was the one who was sort of at the top of the heap. And so this prompted him to try out his own comedy stylings as he grew and as he aged. Of course, being the youngest, it didn’t hurt to be able to defray the attention of older siblings with jokes.

And this is something that we see in our own lives. You may think about the different ways humor and laughter can cut—how it can be a positive thing or a negative thing, how it can alleviate stress and anxiety or be the source of stress and anxiety. Whether you are laughing with someone or laughing at someone, whether people are laughing with you or at you, all these things can serve to hide in different ways. Laughter affects human community, and it affects us as individuals.

And it’s interesting to me that laughter plays a prominent part in our Old Testament lesson. In fact, it’s a theme that begins the chapter before the one you were reading. You were reading chapter 18, but the theme of laughter actually begins in chapter 17, when God is speaking to Abraham. God tells Abraham—predicts to Abraham—that He is going to give him and Sarah a son, and even tells him, “You will call his name Isaac.” Isaac means “he laughs.” And in Hebrew names, when there’s no antecedent, it’s seen as referring to God. So Isaac means “God laughs.”

And so this theme starts in chapter 17: when Abraham hears this, he falls down on his face and laughs, because he can’t believe that this is a realistic promise. Chapter 17, verse 17—Abraham falls on his face and laughs at God’s promise and prediction that they will be given a son whose name will be “God laughs.”

Now hold on to that theme of “God laughs,” because then in chapter 18, while Abraham is at the door of his tent, we’re told that God visits him. Now, this wouldn’t be such a shock for those who’ve been listening to the story, because God has already been conversing with Abraham, as we just saw a chapter before. And yet Abraham—the narrator tells us God visits Abraham, and we’re let in on something that Abraham doesn’t seem to know in the narrative, at least not yet. Because Abraham looks up and he sees these three strangers standing outside—three men. He doesn’t know them. And he gets up and goes and greets them. He kneels on the ground, and he offers them water and bread. He tells Sarah to prepare a meal.

And it’s unclear whether Abraham actually knows that these three visitors are a divine visitation at that moment. Rabbi Shai Held, in his commentary on the Torah portions for this section of Genesis, comments on the fact that the way it appears is that Abraham actually leaves a conversation—an interaction with God—to go and care for strangers. And he comments on that: what does this mean?

That he would leave the presence of God—that you would leave a conversation with God Almighty—and go and take care of strangers, visitors? He uses this to articulate the importance of hospitality and caring for the stranger in the biblical tradition, and he highlights the fact that in the stranger, in the neighbor, in one another, we encounter God.

So you see, it appears that Abraham may have been leaving the presence of God—to those who aren’t let in on the full character of the narrative—and yet, by going to care for the stranger, he encounters God. And that is true for you and I today as well. Because all of us, all human beings, are created in the image and likeness of God. We’re all worthy of love and care; we’re all worthy of hospitality.

Then the interesting thing happens in the narrative. Abraham’s talking to the three strangers, and then he’s asked, “Where is Sarah, your wife?” How do they know who Sarah is? How do they know who his wife is? That’s the glimmer in the narrative—that these are not simply three travelers. Something else is happening here.

So they have this conversation, and when Sarah is asked about—when she hears the prediction again of the birth of a son to them—we’re let in on some of Sarah’s interior thoughts. She thinks about her and her husband’s advanced age, their stage of life and health, and she thinks: this is impossible. She laughs. And I love this exchange, where the lead figure of the three asks Abraham—editing some of Sarah’s thoughts, not revealing completely her interior thoughts—”Why did Sarah think that it is impossible she would bear a son, and laugh?” And I love Sarah’s response: she did not laugh. And then, the end of our lesson today: “Oh, yes, you did laugh.” I love that. Oh, yes, you did laugh.

What is funny about this is, again, this theme of laughter, encounter with God, and three strangers—and God getting the last laugh. Who gets the last laugh? God gets the last laugh.

But here’s the thing: God’s laugh is a laugh of joy into which we are invited. God’s laugh is a laugh of joy into which we’re invited. There are different types of laughter that are already shared. Abraham’s laughter and Sarah’s laughter was, I think, wry laughter—perhaps laughter of resignation about the way the world is. Laughter not so much targeted at a disbelief in God’s abilities, but simply acceptance of the way things are. And yet God’s laughter—his laughter of joy and hope—is revealed in the birth of Isaac, whose name is “God laughs.”

And we’ll see later in Genesis, in chapter 21, Sarah will say that she has laughed, and all who see will laugh with her—being invited into the joy God has made possible in a situation that seemed impossible. And that is a key thing to hold on to. Because in our lives, one of the key things to remember is this: the very thing that we think makes it impossible for God to love us, the very thing that we think makes it impossible for us to serve God, the very thing that we think makes it impossible for us to do what God has called us to do—that is the very location of God’s grace. Because what we discover in the joy of God and the coming of Christ is that God loves us not in spite of those things, but with those things that make us who we are. God loves us, full stop. No ifs, ands, or buts. God loves you, full stop.

And so we see this character of God revealed in various ways. There are different types of laughter, as I’ve said. There’s the wry laughter of resignation at the way things are. There’s also other types of laughter in the world—other types of laughter in response to God’s promises and what God is doing in the world. What we might call derisive laughter, or the laughter of ridicule. This would be folks who see God’s promises, who see the promise of the incoming kingdom of God, and laugh at it—because their ridicule is masking fearfulness. Their ridicule is masking fearfulness, because perhaps they have decided that the way the world is is actually good for them, actually profits them.

These would be the folks who think that their power, their station, their ability to alienate and lord it over others, to oppress others, would be threatened by the world as God wills it to be. And so they laugh at God’s promises out of fear that they might actually come to fruition—because if the reversal that God promises happens, then those who have station over others, and make themselves seem better than others, are not going to be able to continue to do that. And so they laugh.

This would be the sort of laughter that sometimes is expressed as a sense of saying that Christians are naive—that those who would follow the Sermon on the Mount are naive, and just can’t exist in the way the world is. And underneath that criticism is a sort of fearfulness, as I’ve already shared—that something could be lost. And yet the promise of God, the promise of joining in that joyful laughter, is that nothing that would be lost in this reversal of the way the world functions is actually worth being upset about. Because what God promises—in bringing all peoples into unity with Him and with one another—is so much better than what would disappear with the coming of God’s kingdom. And so the God who laughs in the promise and the fulfillment of the promise of Isaac is the same God who comes to us in the person of Jesus Christ.

And so we see Jesus in his ministry. He looks at the people, and he has compassion for them, because they “are like sheep without a shepherd.” And this is a comment that actually strikes the heart of this contrast between the way the world is and the way the world should be. Because in the Bible, a shepherd is both a political and a religious leader, and throughout the prophets and Scripture, God challenges the shepherds who have mistreated the people. In Jeremiah: “Woe to the shepherds who scattered and destroyed the sheep of my pasture.” And there, God promises that He will be the shepherd instead of all these others who have done things for their own good rather than the good of the people.

And so what’s intriguing to me in our Gospel text is not only this consistency in God’s character—that the God who invites us to the laughter of joy looks at the plight of the people and has compassion—but that that compassion is what moves Jesus to send his disciples out.

Now, this is important for us as Episcopalians. I know that in our tradition there is a—let’s say—polite reluctance to talk about things like evangelism. And I understand that many of us have maybe been on the receiving end of some hurtful and challenging attempts at evangelism or proselytization. And yet I want to highlight that Jesus sends the disciples out to the lost sheep of the house of Israel—sends the Twelve—out of his compassion for the fact that they were like sheep without a shepherd.

This is not something Jesus is doing to empower and bolster the disciples, to give them station. This is something that Jesus commands the disciples to do: to go and proclaim the coming of the kingdom—precisely because the ways of the world are not working for everyone. Precisely because the injustice of the world has left many behind. Precisely because the alienation of people from God and people from one another snowballs and creates tragedy. And God has compassion in God’s heart for the people, and the coming of God’s kingdom is intended to be in contrast to the kingdoms and the ways of the world.

In other words, even though we’re using the word “kingdom” when we refer to God’s coming way in the world, what we’re referring to is a different way of living and being. And so when the disciples are sent out, they’re healing, they’re casting out demons, they’re doing these works of power that help the people, that serve as a testimony and a witness to the goodness of God.

And so what I would encourage you to think about today is this: when you are sent out from this place—after having received the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, and being reminded of the forgiveness and the love which was yours before you could do anything at all—take that with you, and offer it to others. Take that assurance, that peace, that comfort with you, and offer it to others. Because that is what the good news of the kingdom means.

It is not about coercing people. It is not about getting people to sign on the dotted line. It is not about sort of counting up, you know, the number of people whom you have convinced of something. It is about the peace and the joy of understanding that God loves you, and God loves them.

This is something that we have at the heart of our tradition. Some of you may remember the words of this particular hymn—it’s 489—and the last verse of it says that in Christ, God came to “win us by good will,” “for force is not of God.” That’s the end of the verse: “for force is not of God.”

And that hymn—it sort of blew me away when I was first looking at it. I noticed, I looked at the bottom of that hymn in the hymnal, and it said it was translated from something called the Epistle to Diognetus, which was written sometime from 130 to 230 AD. And a contemporary translation will not say “force is not of God,” but say “coercion is not of God.”

So this is an insight that’s been in our tradition—perhaps observed more in the breach than in the following of it—but it is something for us to hold on to: to know that when we are invited to share the good news with others, it is good news that is not coercive, that is not backed by force. It is simply about hope in a future in which God calls us to join in God’s joyful laughter and love for the people and the world that God created.

Amen.

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

It is good to be with you all again here at the Church of the Resurrection, and it is especially good to be here as we celebrate the feast of Pentecost. I am grateful to be able to reflect on the readings we have today, and I hope to offer something that will be an encouragement to you, given the state of the world.

Among the things theologians say about Pentecost, one stands out: Pentecost is the reversal of Babel. I’ll talk more about that in just a moment, but the important thing to know at the outset is that Babel has to do with confusion and the inability to communicate—the inability to hear one another.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve certainly had my share of difficulty communicating. There’s a reason that an entire career field now exists around communications—social media managers, press officers, people who manage every aspect of personal and organizational communication. The reason for it is that everybody is trying to figure out how to communicate clearly and to be understood. This isn’t only true in the working world or in organizations. It’s also true in our personal lives. Counselors will tell you how essential communication is in a relationship. Perhaps you’ve had the experience of being at cross purposes with someone—a spouse, a friend, a colleague—where no matter what you do, it is interpreted one way when you meant it another, or you find yourself struggling to trust the sincerity of what the other person is saying.

I recall a number of times I’ve counseled people who were having difficulty in relationships. On one occasion in particular, the conflict had grown so intense that the two people involved simply could not be in the same room. I had to meet with them separately, over the course of about a week. The strangest moment came when I was meeting with the second person and, after about 45 minutes, they happened to mention a particular detail—and I suddenly realized they were describing the same events the first person had described. It had taken me the better part of an hour to recognize it, because the accounts were so different, so divergent in perspective, that the same occasion might as well have been two entirely separate events. When it takes 45 minutes for an outside observer to realize two people are talking about the same thing, it’s clear that something deeper than a disagreement is happening. There are, in a very real sense, two different realities in the room.

I think there is a great deal of this in our culture today. People find themselves inhabiting different realities from one another, and it makes communication genuinely difficult. And that brings us back to Babel—and to Pentecost.

In the story from Acts, we are given this extraordinary event: the Holy Spirit descends upon the disciples in tongues of fire, and they speak and are understood by the various people who have made their way to Jerusalem. These are devout Jews—and those who feared God—who have come from across the Mediterranean world and the ancient Near East: Parthians, Medes, Elamites, residents of Mesopotamia, visitors from Rome, Cretans, Arabs (Acts 2:5-11). They speak different languages. They come from different worlds.

What strikes me about the miracle described in Acts is that it is not simply a miracle of speech. It is a miracle of understanding: each one heard them speaking in the native language of each (Acts 2:6). That is an astonishing thing.

The reason theologians point to this as a reversal of Babel is rooted in the Genesis story. We are told in Genesis 11 that the people of Babel all had one language—and not only one language but, as the rabbis interpret it, the same words, the same thoughts (Gen. 11:1).1 And their shared thought was that they would build a tower reaching to the heavens. Their pride would produce uniformity, sameness, a world ordered entirely on their own terms. The punishment for that pride was the confusion of languages, the scattering of peoples.

But there’s another way of reading Babel that I find helpful. We sometimes speak of chaos as the opposite of order—all freedom, no structure. Babel represents the opposite extreme: all order, no freedom. The pride of those tower-builders was the pride of uniformity, the insistence that everyone think and speak and act the same way.

And so what happens at Pentecost is not simply the undoing of Babel’s confusion. When God brings the church into being through the power of the Spirit, God does not do away with different languages. God does not require everyone to become the same. Instead, God empowers the disciples to speak, and empowers the hearers to hear, so that the gospel can be shared across every boundary—Jew and Gentile, race and ethnicity, culture and class—boundaries that in the ancient world were substantial enough to keep entire communities from ever truly meeting one another.

What makes the timing of this event so remarkable is the feast for which all these people had gathered in Jerusalem. They were there for the Feast of Weeks—Shavuot, in the Jewish calendar. It was an agricultural festival, celebrating the first fruits of the harvest. But it was also, and more deeply, a commemoration of the giving of the Torah—the Law—to Moses on Mount Sinai.

Consider what that means: on the very day when the people of God were celebrating God’s gift of scripture, God’s initiative in showing Israel how to live—how to love the neighbor, how to care for the alien in the land, how to live justly with one another—on that very day, the Holy Spirit descends upon the disciples, and they preach, and they interpret scripture to the crowds gathered in Jerusalem.

God’s plans, it seems, stretch out over a very long time. The Torah was given as a way—a way of ordering communal life, of respecting others, of loving the neighbor and the stranger. And now the Holy Spirit is given as the power to live that way. This is not a coincidence. It is the continuation of a single, long act of divine initiative.

If we turn to our Gospel text, we find what was necessary before any of this could happen. In John 20, we have what theologians call the Johannine Pentecost. It takes place on Easter Sunday—fifty days before the events described in Acts—and it happens while the disciples are still locked in the upper room, still afraid.

Jesus appears to them, and the first thing he says is simply: “Peace be with you” (Jn. 20:19).

I want to suggest that this is more than a greeting. In John’s Gospel, the prologue tells us: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All things came into being through him (Jn. 1:1, 3). The Word that spoke light into existence at creation has now become flesh in Jesus Christ. When Jesus speaks, something different is happening than when you or I speak. If I say “Let there be light,” nothing happens—unless there’s a light switch nearby, or I’ve got the right app on my phone. But when God speaks, it is so.

And so when Jesus says Peace be with you to those frightened, locked-in disciples, that word is not merely a greeting. It is a promise. It is a blessing. It is the gift of the very peace they will need in order to carry out everything that follows. They will need this peace—for the patience it gives them, for the fortitude, for the assurance that God is with them, whatever they will face.

Then Jesus says: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you” (Jn. 20:21).

This is a staggering claim. The disciples of Jesus are to go forward imitating him, embodying what it means to be Christlike, doing things consistent with his earthly ministry. But it is also, I would argue, a promise—because Jesus, who has been raised from the dead, who has demonstrated that he was never separated from the Father, is now saying: the same way the Father has been with me, has guided me, has sent me—that is now how I send you. You are not going alone. You are sent as I was sent.

And then he breathes on them.

I believe what is happening here, in the upper room on Easter evening, is that Jesus is planting a seed—giving the disciples an initial, intimate gift of the Holy Spirit that will flower into full bloom fifty days later on the day of Pentecost. They have to have had this first encounter. They have to have received this breath, this commissioning, this peace, before they can do what they will do when the Spirit is poured out publicly. The interior must precede the exterior. The quiet gift in the upper room makes possible the dramatic work to come.

Then Jesus adds something that is easy to pass over, but shouldn’t be: If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained (Jn. 20:23).

This verse is both a statement of the gravity of the authority God gives to God’s people—and a warning. We read it in parallel with the Lord’s Prayer: if we forgive those who trespass against us, we will be forgiven; if we do not, the question hangs in the air and emphasizes the gravity of the responsibility.

At the heart of all of this is a reversal—and the reversal is not simply Babel undone. The reversal is pride undone by humility.

The people building that tower were driven by the pride of uniformity, the desire to make everything the same, to impose their order on the world and on one another. The reversal of that pride is humility—the willingness to hear across difference, to make room for the other, to speak and to listen across the boundaries that pride erects.

John Stott, the great Anglican evangelical, once wrote: “Pride is your greatest enemy; humility is your greatest friend.” I believe that is true for Christians.

And Augustine puts it even more starkly in reflecting on Jesus: “Great is the misery of a prideful human; greater still the mercy of a humble God.” We see that mercy in the person of Jesus Christ—God laying down divine prerogative, taking on flesh, meeting us behind our locked doors, breathing peace upon us, and sending us into the world.

This is the foundation Jesus laid with the disciples and lays with us. Everything we are called to do has to be done in the context of striving to be more like him. That is why we are Christians.

And yet—and this is important—none of us are the same. Just as difference was affirmed at Pentecost, when people heard in their own languages and the walls between them came down, difference was not eliminated. It was, in some sense, certified by God as something good—as long as people can speak across those differences, and hear across them.

Paul’s word in First Corinthians makes this plain: the gifts of the Spirit are not the same for everyone. But they are all given for the common good (1 Cor. 12:7). All of them. For the common good.

So here is what I want to leave you with.

In a world where people can so quickly come to be at enmity with one another, where division feels like the default setting, those divisions will never be lessened as long as pride is in the driver’s seat. What we are called to do is to be humble as Jesus is humble—to trust in the peace he has given us, to rest in his presence, and to recognize that because of that peace, we can take risks. We do not have to be defensive. We can speak with those who disagree with us. We can attempt to make peace with those with whom we are in conflict. And in the end, we can forgive—even when the situation does not lend itself to full reconciliation. We can release our hold on the judgment we so easily pick up and carry.

This is what Pentecost means for us, practically. This is what it means for the church to be the reversal of Babel—not by erasing difference or demanding uniformity, but by being a community empowered to hear one another, to speak across boundaries, and to embody the humility of a God who came to us in person.

We can help the world know that it is the world by living differently as the people of God.

Amen.

For this paper, I chose to reflect on three sermons by the Reverend Fleming Rutledge, who, though retired, has remained engaged in preaching, lecturing, and writing. As I discerned which preacher might offer the most valuable insights for me in this assignment, I found myself returning to several criteria. I wanted a preacher who refused to shy away from God’s grace and human sinfulness, someone who stays close to the scriptural text rather than using it as a jumping-off point or utilizing thin connections. Richard Lischer, in The End of Words, describes the kind of preaching that “leaps into the text,” going deep and emerging (emotionally and spiritually) somewhere other than where they began.[1] Sermons, Lischer says, can be imagined as “Jesus trying to speak once again in his own community.[2] I wanted to examine preaching that takes both of those elements seriously. This paper focuses on three sermons:

• “Now to Him Who Is Thrown Out of the Temple Comes the Lord of the Temple” (Beeson Lecture Series, Asbury Theological Seminary, February 26, 2008)

• “Do We Have Two Gods?” (Duke University Chapel, September 15, 2013)

• An untitled Lenten sermon preached at Trinity Episcopal Church, Columbus, Georgia, on March 8, 2015.

I. “Now to Him Who Is Thrown Out of the Temple Comes the Lord of the Temple” (John 9:1–41)

The first sermon—preached at Asbury Theological Seminary as part of the Beeson Lecture Series—engages the entirety of John 9. Rutledge’s structural choice not to have the text read separately prior to the sermon stands out immediately. Instead, she integrated the reading directly into her preaching, moving through the narrative verse by verse and interjecting explanatory comments, expansions, and moments of interpretation. This approach gave her time for careful exegesis while also allowing the congregation to encounter the story in something close to its dramatic fullness. She establishes her theme through the opening line of the passage: “Jesus saw the man.” Rutledge emphasizes that Jesus sees him—truly sees him—and highlights how this theme of seeing and being seen recurs throughout the chapter, and also points to what Rutledge identifies as the Gospel of John’s theme: God seeing us.

In the story of chapter 9, different characters “see” the man, but their responses reveal differences of perception, misperception, and moral dispositions. The disciples see him primarily as the occasion for an interesting theological question. His neighbors fail even to recognize him accurately, debating among themselves about who he is. His parents see him, but with a fearful distance. Each form of “seeing” becomes a theological clue. In contrast, the man who was healed has repeated opportunities to renounce Jesus and refuses each time, and each refusal deepens his understanding and conviction.

Rutledge closes the distance between text and hearer by allowing the gospel story to unfold on its own narrative terms while placing interpretive markers at key moments. She avoids elaborate superstructure. Instead, she invites listeners directly into the story’s dramatic world. Small comments and interpretive prompts create natural bridges between the world of Scripture and the listeners’ world.

One example of Rutledge’s bridging technique is her humorous anecdote about a friend reading her book Not Ashamed of the Gospel in a diner. Initially embarrassed, he placed the book face down, but then—considering the title—turned it over again. Doing so, however, drew several unwanted conversations. Rutledge uses this story to illuminate the hesitancy of the blind man’s parents, who want nothing to do with Jesus publicly because they fear the social consequences. She follows the anecdote with a line: “Sometimes I think it would be easier to face a judge and a jury than declare faith in Christ at a sophisticated dinner party.” This is a helpful rhetorical move: a single sentence that crosses two millennia of human experience and lands with pastoral clarity. Her preaching here embodies exactly what Lischer describes when he writes that preaching is “Jesus trying to speak once again in his own community”. Rutledge stays close enough to the text that listeners encounter the living Christ speaking and acting in their midst. Mode of exegesis functions almost as a re-performance of the story, allowing auditors to inhabit it rather than observe it from afar.

Having traced responses to Jesus throughout John 9, she summarizes them: the disciples’ abstraction; the neighbors’ confusion; the parents’ fear; and the growing witness of the man born blind. The temptation for clergy, she argues, may be closest to that of the parents: distancing ourselves from Jesus in contexts where naming him clearly might seem embarrassing or detrimental. This twist drives the sermon’s application home and shows her pastoral awareness of the risks clergy feel in “sophisticated” settings. Her delivery in this sermon reflects a characteristic gravitas. She does not rely on dramatic vocal shifts or reveal a great deal of emotion (though her emotion is often visible); instead, subtle but deliberate variations in pace, tone, and emphasis draw attention where needed. Her humor serves as a gentle release valve, increasing engagement while deepening theological insight.

II. Do We Have Two Gods?” (Jeremiah 14:11–28 & Luke 15)

The second sermon, preached at Duke Chapel, explores the widespread caricature of a wrathful God in the Old Testament and a loving God in the New. Rutledge begins with humor, acknowledging aloud the discomfort many modern Christians feel when confronted with the more severe passages of scripture, including parts of Jeremiah. Rather than shame the congregation, she uses humor to disarm and prepare them for a more nuanced engagement with the text. Her central claim is that Christians do not, in fact, have “two gods.” The supposed gulf between the Old Testament and New Testament depictions of God collapses under close reading. The God of Jeremiah is deeply grieved, longing for covenant faithfulness, and acting in judgment not as arbitrary wrath but as a facet of divine mercy. Likewise, the shepherd imagery in Luke 15—often taken to present God as primarily tender—has roots in Old Testament portrayals of royal power and responsibility, as well as of God as the one shepherd who can ultimately be trusted, entangling with the ideas of protector and judge. Rutledge demonstrates canonical reading at its best. She reads Jeremiah historically and contextually, setting it within the larger arc of Israel’s struggle and God’s persistent fidelity. She reads Luke in continuity with that same story, noting that Jesus does not introduce a new God but reveals the fullness of the God Israel already knows.

Her cultural illustrations here are grounded and effective. She references drug addiction, drawing from the film Traffic, and names global contexts of violence such as the civil war in Syria. These examples offer listeners a way to understand or at least entertain the idea of divine wrath as God’s opposition to evil.

Concluding with a reference to Communion situates the sermon’s theological claims within the Church’s sacramental life. The table reveals that God’s justice and mercy meet in the self-offering of Christ. This resonates with Luke Powery’s discussion in Becoming Human of the ways preaching should help the community express the full range of human experience—suffering, longing, injustice, and hope—within the Spirit’s work.[3] Rutledge does this by refusing simplistic dichotomies and instead depicting God’s character in a well-rounded way, with implications for how we recognize the diversity of human experience as well.

III. Lenten Sermon at Trinity Episcopal Church (Columbus, GA, March 8, 2015)

Although untitled (she refers to it as a belated Ash Wednesday Sermon), the sermon at Trinity Episcopal Church exhibits the pastoral presence that Rutledge establishes as a visiting preacher. By acknowledging past visits, expressing affection for the congregation, and narrating her connections to current and past clergy, she demonstrates attentiveness to the relational context of preaching. These seemingly minor details model how guest preachers can build rapport across diverse settings—churches, seminaries, conferences—without assuming shared history.

The sermon itself continues her pattern of close engagement with Scripture, using humor and cultural touchstones such as the novel The Towers of Trebizond to create narrative connections. Her presence is relaxed but not casual, focused without being rigid.

She enters the sermon by drawing attention to the opening hymn, “How Firm a Foundation,” particularly the verse “When through the deep waters I call thee to go, the rivers of sorrow shall not overflow; for I will be near thee, thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.”[4] Rutledge connects with the congregation’s shared sense of grief, loss, and tragedy, touching on the preacher’s role as a leader of lament, as described by Luke Powery.[5]

In focusing on Psalm 51, which she calls “one of the most penetrating confessions of sin that we know,” Rutledge moves beyond recognition of tradition and lament toward a proactive response in faith. She recognizes Psalm 51 as a prayer of redemption not only for sin but also from sin’s power. In Christ, we are saved from sin, death, and the devil, so our laments for tragedy and our repentance for sin are never thoroughly separate from one another.

IV. Thematic and Homiletical Synthesis

Across these three sermons, several themes emerge consistently. First, Rutledge maintains a commitment to the scripture as the primary engine of the sermon. She does not construct elaborate introductions or rhetorical frameworks; instead, she invites listeners into the world of the Bible and then opens up that world with interpretive clarity. This approach allows the biblical story to be unpacked more quickly and, in some sense, to interpret itself, while giving the preacher space to highlight key theological moments. She effectively collapses the distance between biblical narrative and contemporary experience. Humor, anecdotes, and well-timed asides create a sense of continuity between ancient text and present hearers. This is a form of pastoral leadership: she guides listeners not by simplifying the gospel but by translating its world into ours. Third, her sermons demonstrate a consistent balance between theological seriousness. Pastoral warmth may not quite be an accurate description. Rather than pastoral warmth, a more precise description might be pastoral stability and reassurance. She is unafraid to speak about sin, judgment, or divine wrath, but she never wields these themes as weapons. Instead, she frames them within the larger narrative of God’s mercy and covenant love. Finally, her delivery exudes a kind of authority that is neither authoritarian nor emotionally manipulative. She preaches with gravitas, but not with theatricality. This allows her listeners to focus on the sermon’s content rather than the preacher’s performance.

V. Leadership Dimensions of Rutledge’s Preaching

Each of the three sermons illustrates Rutledge’s attention to the context of her listeners and how she has allowed them to shape her sermon and delivery.[6] Rutledge’s sermons consistently show how attentiveness to context shapes both preparation and delivery, whether she is preaching to seminarians or to a parish.

Rutledge’s preaching demonstrates leadership in several ways. Her close engagement with Scripture models a form of theological leadership that treats the biblical text as trustworthy, rich, and capable of commanding the preacher’s full attention. She also displays a passion for teaching and leadership in her preaching across diverse contexts—seminary, university chapel, parish—without altering the core of her message. Her humor and anecdotal illustrations serve not merely as rhetorical tools but as ways of shaping communal imagination. By gently and strategically addressing congregational assumptions, she corrects misconceptions without provoking defensiveness. Her sermons are also a form of vocational instruction, especially in the Asbury sermon. Her warning to seminarians about the temptation to distance oneself from Jesus in sophisticated social contexts points to a moral challenge facing clergy today: the subtle pressure to downplay explicit faith commitments in environments that may find them “embarrassing or detrimental.”

VI. How Rutledge Challenges My Own Preaching in the Diocese of Tennessee

As I reflect on these sermons in light of my own preaching context in the Diocese of Tennessee, I am struck by Rutledge’s relaxed confidence. She stays rooted in the text, trusts the Scripture to carry the weight of proclamation, and avoids over-explaining. Her pacing is calm, her delivery grounded, and her reliance on narrative steady. In my own ministry—often marked by the pastoral pressures of transitional leadership, clergy formation, and preaching in congregations facing anxiety about identity or future direction—I sometimes feel the temptation to over-explain or over-structure sermons to ensure clarity. Rutledge’s preaching challenges me to trust the text more deeply, to rest in the story’s power, and to leave space for the Spirit’s work in congregational imagination. Her ability to preach deeply theological content without excessive scaffolding challenges me to cultivate a similar clarity. Her willingness to face difficult theological tensions—judgment and mercy, sin and grace—encourages me to embrace challenging messages when necessary. In short, her example invites a posture of greater trust, simplicity, and theological boldness.

VII. Potential Challenges or Weaknesses

Taking on the common myth of an Old Testament God vs. a New Testament God as she did in her Duke Chapel sermon illustrates a potential downside to Rutledge’s directness as a preacher. While she pushes back against assumptions with humor and grace, some might feel she’s too blunt or that she’s gone after their sacred cow. Sometimes the issue might be a sensitive one and turn off some listeners. While it was not among the three sermons I watched for this assignment, in part because it only exists in audio form, Rutledge’s sermon Alone in the Dark which (available in audio format from the Cathedral Church of the Advent in Birmingham, or in her book Three Hours: Sermons for Good Friday) illustrates this danger in the form of an aside where she’s talking about suicide and she says:

A person very close to me, a devout Roman Catholic, told me years ago that she had considered suicide many times but had not gone through with it because she was afraid she would go to hell. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. To this day she struggles with the idea of suicide but resists it. Her courage is the daily struggle not to give in to the power of Death.[7]

I have heard sociologists and public health experts advocate for maintaining a taboo around suicide because it can spread like a virus, and treating it as a taboo can curtail the spread. And yet, associating hell with something like suicide, even in the context of a broader point, could draw people up short or distract them from the rest of what you say. We read this sermon in the new clergy group I lead, and this section elicited similar tension, even as people appreciated the sermon overall.

VIII. Conclusion

Studying Rutledge’s preaching has deepened my appreciation for her voice and challenged my own preaching practice. Her close engagement with Scripture, her pastoral skill in collapsing distance between text and hearer, her humor, her narrative clarity, and theological seriousness, and occasional bluntness all model a form of preaching that is traditional while continuing to feel relevant. She demonstrates what it means for preaching to be a moment when Jesus speaks again in his community—a moment of truth-telling, grace, judgment, and hope. Her work encourages me to preach with trust in the text, greater attentiveness to the congregation, and greater willingness to name the fullness of God’s character. Her sermons have sharpened my understanding of preaching as a theological and pastoral act, one that calls both preacher and congregation to deeper participation in our shared life in Christ.

Works Cited

Episcopal Church. The Hymnal 1982 : According to the Use of the Episcopal Church. New York, N.Y.: Church Hymnal Corp., 1985. notated music.

Kim, Matthew D. Preaching with Cultural Intelligence : Understanding the People Who Hear Our Sermons. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, a division of Baker Publishing Group, 2017.

Lischer, Richard. The End of Words: The Language of Reconciliation in a Culture of Violence. The Lyman Beecher Lectures in Preaching. Grand Rapids, Mich.: William B. Eerdmans Pub., 2005.

Powery, Luke A. Becoming Human: The Holy Spirit and the Rhetoric of Race. First edition. ed. Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 2022.

Rutledge, Fleming, “2019 Lenten Midweek Reading: Alone in the Dark,” Eerdword. Eerdmans, 2019, https://eerdword.com/2019-lenten-midweek-reading-alone-in-the-dark/.

[1] Richard Lischer, The End of Words: the language of reconciliation in a culture of violence, The Lyman Beecher lectures in preaching, (Grand Rapids, Mich.: William B. Eerdmans Pub., 2005)., 92

[2] Lischer, The End of Words: the language of reconciliation in a culture of violence., 8

[3] Luke A. Powery, Becoming Human: the Holy Spirit and the Rhetoric of Race, First edition. ed. (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 2022)., 71-72

[4] Episcopal Church., The Hymnal 1982 : according to the use of the Episcopal Church (New York, N.Y.: Church Hymnal Corp., 1985), notated music., 636

[5] Powery, Becoming Human: the Holy Spirit and the Rhetoric of Race., 98. Powery writes “Preachers lament for the good of the whole, for a larger vision of what it means to be God’s people on earth.”

[6] Matthew D. Kim, Preaching with cultural intelligence : understanding the people who hear our sermons (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, a division of Baker Publishing Group, 2017)., 157

[7] Fleming Rutledge, “2019 Lenten Midweek Reading: Alone in the Dark,” Eerdword, Eerdmans, 2019, https://eerdword.com/2019-lenten-midweek-reading-alone-in-the-dark/.

This book review was published in The Living Church in February 2020.

In 2010, I was called to serve St. Joseph of Arimathea in Hendersonville Tennessee. The church sits at the corner of Country Club Drive and East Main Street. But that stretch of Tennessee 31E has another name in Hendersonville: Johnny Cash Parkway. Cash was a storied resident of the community and arguably his fame has spread — or at least deepened — since his death in 2003. By the time I moved to Hendersonville, his grave, which is six tenths of a mile from the church, had become a pilgrimage site for many people, remarkably for some from Germany and Eastern Europe, as well as others.

I’ve been a fan of Cash since I picked up American II: Unchained in my senior year of high school. Over the years it’s been intriguing to see the staying power of his music. I’ve observed younger people find their way to it, as I did, and then work their way backwards in his catalogue. You never know who’ll say “I love Johnny Cash.”

In Trains, Jesus, and Murder: The Gospel According to Johnny Cash Richard Beck reflects on what makes Cash’s music enduring, but more specifically, how his music embodies and furthers a particular understanding of the gospel. Beck, a professor of psychology at Abilene Christian University who also studies and writes theology, finds Cash’s gospel faithful, attractive, and relevant for people today.

{Read it all}

“I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” (1 Cor. 11:23).

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Maundy Thursday is the entry point to the sacred Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday, the holy days that draw us toward the celebration of the resurrection on Easter Day. It has two main themes: the institution of the Lord’s Supper, emphasized in the reading from First Corinthians, and the obligation of humility, emphasized in the Gospel of John, where the call to humility is exemplified in the washing of feet as a sign-act illustrating the new commandment that we love one another.

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. 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.”

This commandment becomes a core teaching and central aspect of the identity of the early Christian community, and it is illustrated in the practice of foot-washing, which is attested in many places, though not uniformly observed. And, of course, it is a sign of what is supposed to be universally observed, which is not the washing of feet, but the love that Christians are to have for one another. This love for one another fulfills Christ's new commandment. And in doing so, it draws us deeper into the great commandment itself: to love God and our neighbors.

This teaching has to be passed on, and it is a teaching that can only be passed on through a combination of both teaching and instruction in a historical sense, hence the reading of Scripture and the significance of preaching, but it is also a core aspect of identity that has to be lived out through action. The washing of feet is an illustration. But if all we do is wash feet as a liturgical act, and it does not touch our daily lives, and we do not actually live out the new commandment that Christ gave, then it is not serving its purpose.

“For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you,” Paul writes before recounting the institution of the Lord’s Supper and summarizing its significance (1 Cor. 11:23). This line is, and should be, significant for all Christians, because what are we called to, if not to hand on to others what we have received from the Lord? To share with others the forgiveness that we have experienced in Jesus, to share with others the love that we have known in Christ, to share with others the knowledge of God’s love enfleshed in Jesus.

“For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…”

We are, all of us, as Christians, called to preach the gospel with words and with actions, to share the good news, to be able to give a reason for the joy that is within us, and to imitate our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in our manner of life and way of being.

“For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…”

This sentiment should be especially compelling and significant for the ordained. James reminds us in his letter that not many should seek to be teachers, for they will be judged more strictly (cf. James 3:1). James’s warning reminds us of the gravity of this calling. Those whom God calls to teach are charged with handing on what they have received with particular faithfulness — an exemplification of the way all Christians ought to pass on the love received in Jesus, the salvation found in Christ, and the good news of God’s mighty acts, which we recount this week and on Sunday.

But the ordained have a particular calling. For the deacon, the emphasis is on embodying the new commandment to love through service. This emphasis is then carried into the work and life of a priest, who, in our tradition, is first ordained as a deacon and then as a presbyter. To this life of service—which exemplifies adherence to the new commandment by serving others in a loving and faithful way—is added the distinctive characteristic of the priesthood as elder: the guardianship and stewardship of the tradition. This responsibility is both sacramental, which is why we reserve the administration of the Eucharist to priests and bishops, and instructional, as it is the responsibility of the priest, the presbyter of the community, to form Christians in the faith day-to-day and week-to-week.

This role is once again intensified in the life and work of a bishop, for whom guardianship takes a more central place as part of oversight, and the authority to teach and interpret Scripture within the community, and for its well-being, is a particular task to which the bishop is called.

So again, we should all be able to say, “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you.” We should all be able to say that and look at our lives as Christians, seeing the ways in which we have handed on to others what we have received from the Lord. This is a communal responsibility, and Maundy Thursday reminds us of just how much we have received from Christ, and gives us the opportunity to be reminded through Scripture readings, through the act of washing of feet, where that is observed, what it means to be a follower of Christ and a servant of our fellow human beings and children of God.

Today, I encourage you to consider the commandment that Christ gave, the new commandment: “that you love one another, just as I have loved you” (John 13:34). Just as Christ has loved us, we should love one another.

Have we handed on to others the love we received in Jesus? Have we offered others the acceptance that we found in Christ? Have we, through our life, example, faith, and daily dealings, handed on all the good we’ve received in Christ?

This is something for us to examine. But I would suggest, brothers and sisters, that if this were not at all the case, none of us would be here. If this were not at all the case, if there had not been people faithfully handing these things on to us, and if we had not handed these things on to others, there would be no community that would gather at a Maundy Thursday service or tomorrow’s Good Friday observance.

If no one had handed on what they received, then there would be no celebration of the Easter service on Sunday. But, not to spoil anything—there will be.

So yes, we are called to be more faithful, more diligent—but we will never do that if we neglect the evidence of Christ’s work that has already borne fruit in our lives. We should give thanks for it. For the people who have handed this faith on to us. Think for a moment: Who has shown you the love of God? Remember them. Give thanks for them. When you receive communion today, or at other times, consider that discerning the body, recognizing the presence of Christ, also means recognizing the other members of Christ’s body, the very people that we come to the table with, and those who’ve made it possible for us to gather round the altar, whether they are physically present or not.

For what we have received from the Lord, we also hand on: in bread and wine, in the foot-washing, in kindness and love offered to fellow Christians, to neighbors, even to enemies. This is what it means to follow Jesus tonight, tomorrow, and always. Amen.

Recently, I was asked to select a reading from the tradition for an Evensong service, and I had the opportunity to share it as part of the liturgy. My Latin has always been fairly elementary, and through lack of use, it has become even more rudimentary. Even so, I find myself returning to it from time to time, if only for the quiet discipline of working slowly through a text.

For this occasion, I selected a portion of Augustine of Hippo’s On Catechizing the Uninstructed (Chapter 4.8). Ever since I first encountered this passage, I have been struck by its central image: Christ, the humble God. It is an image that holds together what we naturally seek to separate. Rather than something abstract or distant, God’s love is embodied, enacted, and offered to us collectively and to each of us individually.

In Christ, that love is enfleshed. He moves into the center of our human world, accompanies us, and in the end bears the full weight of our alienation from God and one another. In that climactic moment, what appears to be defeat is revealed as the very means of our salvation and reconciliation: a pathway opened, here and now, and carried forward into the fullness of God’s future, which is now also our future.

I do not know a more fitting image as we enter Holy Week than this—Christ’s humility and love intertwined.

What follows is my own translation of that passage, offered not as an expert rendering, but as an act of attention and gratitude. It is, perhaps, a small way of listening again to a voice that continues to speak with clarity into the life of the Church.

May the love of God, made known in Christ, be revealed to us all in new and deepening ways this Holy Week.

Translation:

Therefore, if Christ came especially for this: that humanity might know how much God loves them, and that, knowing this, they might be set ablaze in love for the One by whom they were first loved, and might love their neighbor as Christ commands and demonstrates—he who, by loving not one who was near but one far off and wandering, became neighbor himself—then all holy Scripture written beforehand announced the coming of the Lord, and whatever has since been written with divine authority proclaims Christ and urges love. It is clear that the whole Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments: the love of God and the love of neighbor; and not only these, but whatever has been written later for our good likewise proclaims Christ and exhorts love.

For, in the Old Testament, the New is hid; in the New Testament, the Old is revealed. According to that hiddenness, those who understand only in a fleshly way are subject to punishing fear. According to this revelation, the spiritual—those who knocked in humility then, and had even what was hidden opened to them, and those now who do not seek in pride, lest even what is open be closed—understanding spiritually, are set free by the gift of love.

For nothing is more opposed to love than envy, and the root of envy is pride. Therefore, the same Lord Jesus Christ, God and man, is both the sign of God’s love for us and the example of human humility among us, so that our great swelling might be healed by a greater and contrary remedy.

For great is the misery of the proud, but greater still the mercy of the humble God.

Therefore, with this love set before you as your end, to which you refer everything you say, whatever you proclaim, speak it in such a way that the one who hears you may, in hearing, believe; in believing, hope; and in hoping, love.1

A few thoughts regarding some parts of the translation. I nearly used a few compound words to try to get at some sense of the Latin that English doesn’t convey well in one word, or because translation loses the word-play. In the sentence “Si ergo maxime propterea Christus advenit, ut cognosceret homo quantum eum diligat Deus” rather than “loves” I considered using the term “lovingly regards” so that it would be “so that humanity might know how much God lovingly regards them.”

The most obvious question was whether to stick with “man” for the translation of homo. Given the context where I will be reading this, I opted to go for humanity and use a singular they (I know, I know). I considered “person” but thought it brought too much theological baggage related to God (divine persons, etc.) as well as humankind or human being. In the end, I thought humanity preserved some simplicity.

For the phrase “For great is the misery of the proud [man/human], but greater still the mercy of the humble God.” in Latin “Magna est enim miseria, superbus homo: sed major misericordia, humilis Deus” there’s wordplay between misery (miseria) and mercy (misericorda). Misery and mercy in English aren’t etymologically related, as mercy comes from the Anglo-Norman merci, deriving from classical Latin’s fee, wages, or price, and in post-classical Latin, “gift” (which may be why it takes on its current meaning and comes to translate misericordia). Despite that, they have a similar sound in English, and I thought that was better than trying to use some sort of compound words to hammer home a relationship that I think readers/listeners can get to just fine without the explicit wordplay. I considered “seeking-misery” and “loving-mercy” but thought they clouded more than they revealed.

From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we know him no longer in that way. So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us. So we are ambassadors for Christ, since God is making his appeal through us; we entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

Sermon:

May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be always acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

Not long ago, I took my sons to breakfast at the Waffle House, and it was my younger son’s birthday. As we got close to the end of the meal, he shared with the server that it was his 11th birthday, and she congratulated him there at the table, but then she stepped back and said, “Hey, everybody, this is his 11th birthday!” Spontaneously, the entire restaurant cheered and clapped, and it simply delighted both my sons, but especially my younger son, to have such a display of enthusiasm and joy for his birthday.

In our reading from Second Corinthians, Paul is writing to the Corinthians, and it is almost impossible not to sense the joy that’s coming through as he writes about the reconciliation wrought by Jesus and this new creation. “If anyone is in Christ, new creation” — it’s like it’s pulled out of him. He can’t help but say it. Paul is enthusiastic about this. He is celebratory, and he’s inviting us — he’s inviting you and me — to be part of this celebration. In fact, we are called, he says, to be ambassadors of Christ, to be the ones who go out and share the reality and the truth of this reconciliation with others. We’re called to celebrate and invite people in to something in which they already are participants and yet don’t know.

But how can we be ambassadors of the new creation when there are so many things about our lives and about our society which seem to be evidence against the reality of the reconciliation of humanity with one another and with God? How do we do that? This world is full of what you might call contrary evidence.

I’ll give you an example. This was also at a Waffle House. I went to a Waffle House near my work one morning, and I was by myself. I was sitting at the tall counter, and the cook and one of the servers were having a conversation. It became clear very quickly that they were talking about a third employee who wasn’t there at the time but was coming in later. The server mentioned this person to the cook, and he just went on a tear about this young woman who wasn’t there. He started talking about how — well, you know — “Obviously I know she’s supposed to be in recovery, but you’ve seen her. She’s all padded up. How is she ever going to accomplish the things that she hopes to accomplish? She’s never going to get custody of her child again.” It just went on and on for about five minutes, almost, and the server, who had mentioned something to him, had just been sort of standing there and didn’t really know how to respond.

Then I heard the door open, and it closed, and I heard the server, in a sort of awkward way, say, “Oh, hi.” It turned out it was the young woman that they had been talking about. The cook in particular had seen that woman through human eyes — through eyes of the flesh — and he had heaped judgment upon her and had constrained her possibilities in his own mind. Now, when she came in, he did greet her, and then he turned to go back to his work. He didn’t say any of those things to her face, which honestly almost made it worse. Perhaps it did make it worse.

It is all too easy to see people from a human perspective. Paul wants us to celebrate. Paul wants us to testify to the new creation, and it may be that in order for us to testify to it, we first have to understand what it is we’re testifying to. What is it that is so powerful about this? What is it that elicits this exclamation from Paul — “new creation”?

I would suggest to you that it is the fact that God in Christ has unilaterally declared peace and put an end to the enmity between humanity and God, which was always one-sided, and put an end to the enmity between humanity. This is something to celebrate. It’s something to testify to. It’s something to invite people into.

Paul’s understanding, I believe, is that this is something available to all people. This particular passage, where Paul says “if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation” — I believe this is one of those times where there are multiple meanings to this text. If any one person is in Christ, they are a new creation. If any one person is in Christ, they testify to the reality of the new creation in which we all participate. If anyone is in Christ, then they themselves participate in a new creation that all are called to participate in. Various translations back this up — some talk about “if someone” or “if a man is in Christ, he is a new creation”; others talk about “if anyone is in Christ, then there is a new creation.” They testify to the new creation. You can see this diversity of meaning in the diversity of translation, but all of these are getting at Paul’s true meaning. It’s not just one — it’s all of them — because each of these things is true, and we are to be ambassadors of this.

But how can we be ambassadors of this if we see people heaping judgment on others, constraining the possibilities of other people, assuming the worst? How can we be ambassadors of hope in a world that too often lingers in the hopeless?

I have a third story from Waffle House to complete the triptych. A number of years ago — it was still on the heels of the Black Lives Matter protests; we had just been able to start going out to restaurants again — I’d taken my sons to a Waffle House again to have breakfast. I was getting up to pay, and in front of me in line was a Black man, probably in his mid- to late twenties, and he had a young girl with him, maybe three years old. He was paying for their meal, and as the server at the register rang them up, she said, “How was everything?” He responded, “Very good.” Then he leaned down to his daughter — she was smiling and jumping around — and he said, “Can you tell the nice lady thank you for taking care of us?” Which the little girl did.

Then something else happened. In order for you to understand this, you have to know that when I was standing at the register, if I looked to my right, over in the corner at the low bar, there was an older couple, perhaps in their seventies. The man was a bit older than the woman. He was in a wheelchair and had a Vietnam veteran cap on. I don’t know what their story was, but the little snippets that I caught as my sons and I were eating let me know that, in spite of the fact that they were very jovial and interacting with the staff, they were having some difficult times.

So the young man in front of me leaned forward to the woman at the register and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, I would like to pay for their meal.” She said, “Okay, let me get their ticket.” She got their ticket, rang it up, and he paid. He and his daughter left the restaurant, and so I got to be there, as I was waiting to pay, to see the server walk over to the older couple. When they asked for their check, she said, “It’s been taken care of.” I saw the surprise on their faces. The man sort of laughed and shook his head, and his wife teared up.

Now, what made this interaction all the more powerful is that this man and this woman were white, and this young man who had paid for their meal was Black, and it was in the context of a time in which we were — as we still are — wrestling with issues of race and discrimination in our country. I have no idea what may have motivated that young man. I don’t know what his faith background may have been. I don’t know if he was a veteran or if he had family members who were veterans. I don’t know if maybe he was just being kind. But regardless, he saw something. He saw an opportunity for kindness.

So, what are we to do in a world where there’s so much evidence built up against the reality of reconciliation, so much evidence against the reality of a new creation? How are we ambassadors? How are we to invite people to participate?

Well, the thing about being an ambassador is you’ve got to know a little bit about your country. The thing about being an ambassador is you’ve got to be able to interpret to other people. The thing about being an ambassador is you have to invite people to come and take part and experience something new so that they can know it themselves.

So our job as ambassadors is to point to the signs that we see, to point to the evidence of the kingdom — those moments of kindness. Now, here’s the thing. Some people might say that the Spirit only works in believers to do these things, but I’m going to say to you that no, the Spirit blows where the Spirit wills, and God works through all people in all places. Our first task is to look around. If we’re to be ambassadors, our first task is to look around and to see where God is already active.

And then, if we’re to be ambassadors for the kingdom, if we’re to be ambassadors for Christ, we are the ones who are called to interpret the signs. We are the ones who are called to share with other people what it means for there to be kindness in a world where really it sometimes appears that there can’t be — or shouldn’t be — any more kindness. We are, in other words, the ones who share the good news of the reconciliation of all people to God in Christ, and we’re the ones who share the evidence. And we rejoice in every example — like that server and the breakfast on my son’s birthday. We are called to announce the reality. We are called to announce the need for celebration. We may just be surprised how people will respond.

If anyone is in Christ — new creation! Amen.

To view the service, check out Trinity’s YouTube channel.

May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

It is football season in the South, and it’s a good year for fans of college football in Tennessee—two top-25 ranked teams, Vanderbilt and Tennessee. Vanderbilt beat LSU yesterday, and some people have already celebrated that this morning. Regardless of what happened between Tennessee and Alabama, Tennessee will probably remain a ranked team.

Even though I played football throughout my childhood, I don’t have a team I root for. I like to watch because I enjoy the strategy. My university didn’t have a football team, but when I went to Sewanee—the University of the South and the School of Theology—it didn’t take long for me to hear a story many of you may know: the story of the 1899 Sewanee Tigers, known as the Iron Men.

Sewanee was one of the founding institutions of the predecessor to the Southeastern Conference, and that 1899 football team was famous for a ten-day journey in which they defeated five teams in six days, all by shutout. They beat Texas, Texas A&M, Tulane, Ole Miss, and LSU—and as the story goes, they rested on the seventh day.

It’s been a long time since Sewanee could say anything like that against teams of that size, but back then, the playing field was more even. One of the players on that team was William Sterling Claiborne, who later became Archdeacon of East Tennessee and was instrumental in overseeing and supporting various mission churches—seventeen of them by 1930—supported by what was then Otey Parish, now St. Mark and St. Paul. Many of those congregations still exist in the Sewanee area. He was very much an exemplar of that late-19th- and early-20th-century movement known as muscular Christianity, which also gave us the YMCA and YWCA.

The team was called the Iron Men because they played both offense and defense. They didn’t substitute players. That’s something rarely seen today—usually only when a team has too many injuries to field a full squad or when they’re playing a stronger opponent and want to give themselves a chance by using their best athletes on both sides of the ball. It’s a gamble: can you do enough before you wear out?

You can probably think of times in your life when, if life were a game of football, you felt like you were playing on both offense and defense, with no subs, and maybe even that the refs were out to get you. Imagine then if the referee were not just inept but actually out to get you—odds stacked against you, weary and worn out. In that kind of situation, what a relief it would be to hear another phrase sometimes used about players on a team: “They were all over the field.”

Someone who’s everywhere at once, doing everything.

The hope for us is that God is all over the field in our lives when we face difficulties. And that, I believe, is the message of the parable Jesus tells today.

The Parable of the Widow and the Judge

Luke sets it up for us: Jesus told his disciples a parable “about the need to pray always and not lose heart.” Yet this parable about prayer contains two striking absences. We never hear that the widow prays, and the only reference to God is an unjust judge who “does not fear God.”

So why does Jesus tell us this story about a poor widow under such strain? She’s speaking for herself in the courts—going to the gate of the city. This indicates she has no male relative to stand for her, no brother, son, or nephew. It’s even possible the person she’s seeking justice against is a male relative. She has no advocate, so she goes to the only place she can—the judge—and she goes again and again.

She goes, and he denies her. She goes again, and he denies her.

We know from the start that this is an unjust judge, because he neither fears God nor respects people. That description alone would have told Jesus’ audience that he was a bad judge. In Scripture, the two essential qualifications for a good judge are precisely those: to fear God and to care for people.

Justice, in the biblical sense, requires attention to particular cases and circumstances. There’s even a term from Greek philosophy for this: epieikeia—reasonableness or fittingness. True justice can’t be achieved by applying laws abstractly; it must take account of real people and real situations.

This judge fails completely. Yet the widow persists. She continues to seek what is rightfully hers until she wears him down. Eventually, he relents—not because he’s just, but because she’s relentless.

As Jesus says, the unjust judge relents—she wears him down. In the end, he’s afraid she might come and “give him a black eye.” That’s the literal reading, and just as in English, it has a double meaning. It could mean he’s literally afraid she’ll strike him, or more likely that she’ll damage his reputation. The one thing he cares about—himself—is now at risk because of her persistence, and that’s what finally moves him.

Where God Is Found

Where is God in all this? And where is prayer?

Prayer is found first in the widow’s persistence—the energy and determination that keep her from losing heart. Prayer empowers us in the face of daunting odds. And prayer is not something we generate on our own. It is something God does in us through the power of the Holy Spirit. God inspires prayer—literally breathes it in us. Prayer sustains and directs us, keeps us from despairing, and enables us to do what needs to be done.

Prayer is also present in the parable through the widow’s actions. St. Bonaventure, the medieval theologian, wrote that to “pray always” means prayer of desire in the heart, prayer of petition on the lips, and prayer of disposition in our work and actions. The widow’s desire for justice is prayer in her heart; her appeal to the judge is prayer on her lips; and her persistence in returning again and again is prayer in her actions.

So prayer is there, and God is there.

Sometimes people read this story and wonder where God is in it, but Jesus himself is the one telling the parable—God in the flesh. He sees the plight of people like this widow. He uses her story as an example of faithfulness and persistence. “Look at this widow’s faithfulness,” he’s saying. “She acts despite the odds. You must pray like this if you are not to lose heart.”

This parable comes in response to the disciples’ question about when the Son of Man will come. Jesus’ answer is clear: if you are going to follow me, be faithful. Trust that God is far better than this unjust judge.

It’s what theologians call an argument from lesser to greater: if even the unjust judge eventually relents, how much more will God, who loves us, give what we need?

God is present in the telling of the parable, in the inspiration of the widow’s persistence, and as the ultimate judge who will set things right. While the unjust judge may not fear God, everyone hearing Jesus’ words would know that God will set things right. The Son of Man will return; the question is not if, but when.

And Jesus’ final question lingers: “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

Will there be people like this persistent widow—faithful, enduring, acting for what is right?

Jesus promises that when God acts on behalf of God’s people, it will happen swiftly. It may appear that nothing is happening, and then suddenly, God’s justice breaks in. Some translations say “quickly,” but others render it “swiftly” or “suddenly”—a reminder that God’s action may seem delayed and then come all at once.

There is hope for the future, yes—but justice also comes through the persistence of God’s people: thousands of widows seeking justice, thousands more who witness their persistence and join them, who refuse to let the unjust rest. Their faithfulness becomes the instrument of God’s justice.

Faith That Persists

In the end, God is all over the field—in our actions, in our prayers, in our endurance, and in our hope.

So what does this mean for us today? For Trinity Church?

You are in a process of transition. Many of you will be called to new things, to new ministries, to take on new responsibilities. You’ll be doing unfamiliar tasks or engaging familiar ones with renewed purpose. In all of it, prayer must remain central—in your heart through desire, on your lips through petition, and in your work through faithful action.

When Christ returns and asks, “Will I find faith on the earth?”—I trust and believe he will find it here at Trinity. Today, next week, and in the years to come, you will be a faithful people empowered by God.

When we pursue justice, when we act faithfully and prayerfully, we are never alone—because God is all over our lives, and all over the field.

Amen.

Friends,

As we seek to make sense of a world that seems to be both growing in complexity and increasing in instability, I thought it would be helpful to share with you some articles that are helping me to make sense of what I’m seeing. These will range across several disciplines and sources. I hope you find them useful.

I will always begin with the latest post or posts from The Gospel Plow, which I will include in this digest form in order to keep from flooding your inboxes.

God bless,

Jody

you can read part one of this essay here:

An aside about the Episcopal Diocese of Tennessee

A recent assignment for one of my Doctor of Ministry classes involved writing a brief description of our ministry context. Since I serve the diocese and not a single congregation, the description is a little more involved.

Part of the background I shared was a brief reference to the three “Grand Divisions” of Tennessee (East, Middle, and West) as identified in the Tennessee Constitution. Reflecting on the multilplication of dioceses, first in 1982 with the formation of the Diocese of West Tennessee, and then a few year’s later in 1986 with the formation of the Diocese of East Tennessee, it occured to me it would be interesting to compare the Convocations of the single Diocese of Tennessee with the map of the current diocesan boundaries. Using a geojson file I created to show the shape of the dioceses and location of congregations, I was able to map a semi-transparent layer over this old map of the Diocese. I think the outcome is pretty interesting.

From other publications

A selection of articles from news outlets, opinion journals, magazines etc. that I read regularly.

A troubling reflection from The Atlantic: Canada is Killing itself

”When Canada’s Parliament in 2016 legalized the practice of euthanasia—Medical Assistance in Dying, or MAID, as it’s formally called—it launched an open-ended medical experiment. One day, administering a lethal injection to a patient was against the law; the next, it was as legitimate as a tonsillectomy, but often with less of a wait. MAID now accounts for about one in 20 deaths in Canada—more than Alzheimer’s and diabetes combined—surpassing countries where assisted dying has been legal for far longer.

It is too soon to call euthanasia a lifestyle option in Canada, but from the outset it has proved a case study in momentum. MAID began as a practice limited to gravely ill patients who were already at the end of life. The law was then expanded to include people who were suffering from serious medical conditions but not facing imminent death. In two years, MAID will be made available to those suffering only from mental illness. Parliament has also recommended granting access to minors.”

{Gift Link}

David Zahl offers a good word in Plough, “Against Self Optimization:”

There is a meme that makes the rounds every new school year among parents of elementary-school-aged children. I’m pretty sure it originates from the initial Covid lockdown, but the punchline still lands. A middle-aged man stands in a crowd with hands on hips, his facial expression the epitome of Not Amused. Above the picture someone has produced a message from a teacher. “Just log into Zabelzoot, scroll down to the Zork! App, and have the kids work through the assignments sent through Kracklezam.”

The meme’s staying power lies not so much in its spot-on lampooning of the make-learning-fun website names but in the exasperation of parents at the convoluted processes through which they’re expected to guide kids these days. In theory, “Zabelzoot” or its real-life equivalent is supposed to make communication between teachers and students easier. Rather than print out an assignment and hand it to your teacher, you just click to turn it in. And yet I spend as much time troubleshooting the various homework programs on my sons’ computers, updating the software, and filling out endless two-factor authentications as I do helping them with their homework. It is a crazy-making experience that leaves everyone frustrated, tired, and not remotely in the mood for learning.

{Read it all}

Faith and Leadership: Networking: A feature of thriving communities

Our attempts to relate to other churches are often haphazard. Except for an occasional “pulpit exchange” or the joining of hands for a local good cause, many churches leave it up to the individual members to work out when and how people engage with another community of Christians.

It therefore can be quite surprising to discover that the early church was strategic. As the book of Acts shows in detail, the early Christians believed that it was necessary to create a tightly interlocking web of communities. The earliest missionaries would doubtless have taken all comers, but they focused on establishing communities in major urban centers such as Ephesus, Corinth and Rome or in cities that were geographically well-positioned for travel and trade (for example, Thessalonica, Philippi, Antioch). Establishing house churches in these locations allowed easy communication and movement between the various communities.

Because of the speed and ease of our own communication, we often pass much too quickly by the remarkable fact that the churches in Acts were in regular communication with one another.

{Read it all}

When congregations feel the ground shifting beneath them, the first impulse is often to look backward. We reach for what once worked. But this is often filtered and comes to us as a selective memory rather than a truthful narration of past experiences. Nostalgia—though understandable—can prevent us from facing God’s call to deep change and renewed mission in the present. In this essay, I want to examine the temptations of nostalgia, the difference between technical and adaptive leadership, and how our sacred memory can ground us for transformation.

The Temptations of Nostalgia

When society is in flux and resources are stretched thin, it is easy to slip into nostalgia. Gil Rendle describes nostalgia as three temptations woven together: “living a one-sided story, relying on past diagnoses, and avoiding necessary but difficult questions.”1

I often hear these temptations in parochial ministry. When older members lament the absence of young people, the grief is not abstract. It is usually about particular children or grandchildren not being present in their congregation, or in any church at all. That pain is real. But nostalgia can turn it into paralysis, as if repeating the programs of thirty years ago or imitating another congregation’s methods will somehow resolve the loss.

Technical vs. Adaptive Leadership

Ronald Heifetz has shown that leadership often defaults to the technical: applying “known solutions to known problems.”2 When anxious, people seek relief from leaders who will “save us from adjustment.”3

Adaptive leadership, by contrast, insists that the community itself must change. It means shifting away from one-sided stories and taking up the conflictual and systemic work of rethinking habits and assumptions. This is harder because it requires not only action but transformation of values and attitudes. Yet it is also the only faithful way forward in a changed environment.

Sacred Memory and Our Fear of Losing It

Susan Beaumont names another anxiety at the root of our nostalgia: fear that we are the weak link in the memory chain. “One of our agonies related to the current decline in organized religion,” she writes, “is our fear that we are the generation that may fail to pass the sacred stories forward.”4

Citing Miroslav Volf, she reminds us that memory is a key force in constituting community, to the point that the two are inseparable: “Take the community away and sacred memory disappears; take the sacred memory away and the community disintegrates.”5

The fear of losing the past drives some congregations to cling more tightly to the familiar forms. Yet ironically, without adaptation, the memory and the community are both at risk. What is needed is not abandonment of memory but faithful reinterpretation of it.

From Process to Adaptation

In my own ministry, I have often leaned on processes—structured conversations, discernment frameworks, and conflict mediation. These tools can comfort communities because they provide a clear path. But even the best process cannot remove the need for adaptive change.

The next phase of my work, I believe, is to help congregations and our diocese face the deeper questions of identity and mission: not merely how to resolve conflict, but how to reimagine our life together in a divergent and transitional society. This involves saying “no” to some ministries so that our “yes” to others can be stronger, more committed, and more strategic.

Deep Change and Discontinuity

Rendle distinguishes between incremental change and deep change. Deep change is discontinuous with the past, major in scope, and often irreversible.6 Heifetz adds that adaptive work requires changes in “values, attitudes, or habits of behavior.”7

This is daunting. Yet it is also hopeful, because the Church’s deep change is never completely untethered from its past, from our story. The adaptive work before us can align with the values most essential to our identity as the Body of Christ, even as it asks us to relinquish secondary habits that no longer serve our mission.

Here, the past becomes an ally. Reinterpreted rightly, our memories can anchor us while we take the risks needed to grow into the future God desires for us.

Reinterpreting Memory for the Future

Moving forward may feel disrutive, but rupture is not the goal. While Rendle is right that deep change may be expoerienced as discontinuity, at least with the recent past, David Thomas and John Gabarro, writing about corporate transformation, argue that organizations succeed when they align change with their most fundamental ethos.8 In the Church, this means linking adaptation to the core of our story: the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the power of the Holy Spirit, and the mission to proclaim the gospel to all people.

As Beaumont observes, leaders serve by helping communities retell their stories: shaping the telling of memory in ways that elevate core values while augmenting by introducing new ones as needed.9 Effective retelling helps an organization discern what its next steps should be, not as a rupture with the past, but in continuity with specificly highlighted elements of it, as an evolution.

For our congregations, this means drawing courage not from nostalgia for the 1950s but from the deeper memory of God’s faithfulness across a much broader sweep of time.

Conclusion: Reflections for Faithful Decision-Making

I have come to see my call as offering challenging reflections to our congregations about their context, and informed insights in diocesan discussions of ministry priorities. The work is not easy. Yet in articulating our present realities, we open the way for adaptive work that can yield strategies both new and renewed—rooted in memory, but not bound by nostalgia.

“Although people may balk at your interpretation,” Heifetz reminds us, “having one on the table to discuss, revise, and amend is profoundly useful.”10 This is the vocation of leadership in a liminal and divergent age: to put honest interpretations on the table, grounded in faith, so that God’s people can discern the way forward together.

Notes

The Episcopal Church, like the wider world, faces challenges that can’t be solved by technical fixes on their own. They require what Gil Rendle calls “adaptive work”—changes in our habits, assumptions, and practices that allow us to meet a new reality with faith and courage. In this essay, I explore what adaptive challenges mean for our Church, how cultural shifts shape our leadership, and why we must learn to navigate a time that is divergent and liminal.
The following post has been adapted from an essay for my DMin Leadership class, a PDF of which can be found here.

Adaptive Challenges, Not Problems

The most intractable issues facing the Church in the West, including the Episcopal Church, are adaptive challenges rather than problems. An adaptive challenge does not have a solution; instead, it requires adaptation, or change that allows a person or organization to encounter an altered reality in a new way.

As Gil Rendle states in Quietly Courageous: “If technical work is the application of solutions to problems, then adaptive work is needed when one is faced with a situation that is not a problem, but is instead a changed environment.”1

Both the Church and society exist within a changing environment. Individuals or organizations faced with an adaptive reality must change in response, or they will be unable to meet the needs of the moment. The strategies and behaviors of the past may be maladaptive and unsuited to current realities. While some success may be achieved, fully engaging with the present will be impossible without change and adaptation.

Convergence and Divergence

The peculiarities of the changing context can be considered in many ways. As a culture, we have moved out of a peculiarly convergent time in the post-war period when Americans were largely bonded “into a cohesive national group with a shared national and global agenda.”2

This period of convergence strengthened many societal and governmental institutions. Mainline Protestantism benefited, and like many institutions, denominations developed and strengthened their organizational life during this period. In a convergence culture, the commonalities between people are emphasized.

By contrast, ours is a time of divergence, where individuality is emphasized, and individual experience and values are highly prized. In such a context, “In a convergence culture you lead with your sameness. In a divergent culture you lead with your difference.”3

For the Church, this means leadership cannot simply rely on shared assumptions. We must recognize individual and group uniqueness while also building communities capacious enough to hold difference faithfully.

Transition as a Universal Experience

The increased speed and breadth of cultural change highlight the already present reality that communities and individuals are always in transition. In church life, we often use the phrase “in transition” to describe a clergy change. Yet transition, as William and Susan Bridges remind us, is a universal pattern that applies to society, organizations, and individuals alike: an ending, a neutral zone, and a new beginning.4

Susan Beaumont builds on this in How to Lead When You Don’t Know Where You’re Going, describing the phases of separation, the liminal period, and reorientation. The liminal period, like Bridges’ neutral zone, can be summarized as a time of heightened emotion: anxiety and fear coupled with anticipation. (NB: Congregations with whom I have worked in transition will recognize this language).

The old ways of doing things are passing away, and the new ways have not yet emerged. It can be a period of imagination and excitement as new ideas are explored, but also of disaffection, weariness, and anger. The task of leadership in such a time is to ensure that amid exploration and conflict, there remains an engine of encouragement. By addressing simple problems and celebrating well-chosen projects, leaders can help communities move from generalized anxiety to specific urgency.

Leading in Liminal Time

Moving from the firmer footing of modernity, we have now entered a period of “liquid” time in which, as Rendle observes, even massively complex corporations must redo strategic work within eighteen to twenty-four months.5 Plans that extend beyond two or three years can quickly become detached from reality if they lack feedback mechanisms for adjustment.

This reality challenges church leaders accustomed to long-term planning. In a liminal time, strategy must be held lightly. Flexibility and responsiveness matter more than five-year projections.

For our congregations, this means a shift away from thinking that ministry can be scripted in advance. Instead, faithful leadership in this season emphasizes discernment, responsiveness, and experimentation, all grounded in prayer and mission.

Naming the “What Now?”

The difficulty of leadership in such a fluid season lies in articulating the present realities to clergy and lay leaders. Some facts are clear—for example, the rise of religious disaffiliation, especially among younger generations. But the “why” is elusive. There is no single explanation.

The temptation is to fixate on finding the answer to “why,” when in fact the more faithful move is to name “what” is happening and then ask “what now?” This requires interpretation and courage.

In my ministry, I have seen how essential this is during clergy transitions. Many lay leaders are unaware of the wider landscape of the Church: the shortage of clergy, the missing Generation X cohort, the challenges facing pastoral-sized congregations, and the competition for younger clergy among larger parishes.

To ask “what now?” in this environment is to face limitations honestly without despair. It is to resist nostalgia and instead move toward imagination.

In the next essay, I will explore how the Church can resist the temptation of nostalgia and embrace the change necessary for adaptive leadership, rooted in the faithful memory of God’s people.

Notes

Scripture: Acts 9:36-43; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30

It is good to be with you all here this morning on Good Shepherd Sunday, to be able to reflect on what it means to call Christ the Good Shepherd. I would submit to you, as we begin this reflection, that it means far more than we often consider. That we call Christ the Good Shepherd—that we call Christ the Lord—these titles are bound up together. In fact, Messiah, Lord, Good Shepherd—they all flow into one another. Each of our readings, in their own way, reflects some aspect or lens through which we can come to understand who Jesus is, and who we are because of who Jesus is.

When we look at Acts, we see a witness to what the disciple is to be and how a disciple is to act. When we look to the Gospel of John, we see what Jesus’s Messiahship entails. And when we look to Revelation, we see Jesus’s identity presented clearly and repeatedly through powerful imagery. In all three texts, we find a testimony to the hope that is ours through faith in Christ.

Years ago—more years than I care to count—I was an undergraduate and heard a lecture by Dr. Michael Budde entitled Jesus on the Job: The Corporate Exploitation of Religion.1 His thesis was an interesting one. He argued that advertising companies and others actually benefit from our "post-Christendom" culture: the general disaffiliation of people from the Church. We are far enough removed from the Church that most people no longer have deep formation in it, yet close enough that religious language and imagery still hold resonance.

And here was the key insight: people are familiar enough with the imagery to find it meaningful, but not formed enough in the faith to recognize blasphemy when they see it. So the culture is ripe for the misapplication of Christian imagery, faith language, and symbolism. This matters because many of us, even within the Church, unknowingly absorb these misuses of faith. We may mistake charisma for authority or equate moralism with the Gospel.

Now, Budde was naming something about our culture, but I think what he was really pointing to is a misuse of faith and of God that has always been present, across times and places. Here’s what I mean: whether we're talking about spiritual leaders, political leaders, family leaders, or institutional authorities, there are always people who will presume for themselves the kind of loyalty, authority, and status that rightly belongs only to God.

So I want to lift up two phrases from our readings today—two that I hope you’ll carry with you. First, from Revelation: "Salvation belongs to our God” (Revelation 7:10). And second, from the Gospel: "No one can take them from my hand” (John 10:28). These two declarations—That God alone is Savior, and Jesus never loses what the Father has given him—give us the foundation for understanding faithful leadership and discipleship.

These declarations guide us as we consider leadership in all its forms—spiritual, political, and familial. In each of these situations, people should not present themselves in such a way that they have somehow presumed the place of God. In other words, they should not be saying something that sounds like, “I am your salvation. I am the one that you should listen to.”

Now, that doesn’t mean there aren’t people with authority. Obviously, Scripture tells us we should show respect to our parents and to those in positions of leadership. But here’s the key: if someone is standing in my position and they say something like, “Trust me; I know what’s best,” and they’re not pointing you to Jesus, they’re aggrandizing themselves. They’re lifting themselves up.

If someone is standing in another place of authority and they’re saying you should give them the sort of obedience that belongs rightly only to God, or if they’re saying that their ideology or their perspective is where you’re going to find salvation—in other words, if anyone in any place is telling you that your salvation depends upon obedience to them rather than faithful obedience to God—they’re misleading you. That’s not the voice of a shepherd, but of someone attempting to take the Shepherd’s place.

We are given the gift of discernment to recognize the difference between good shepherds and false ones. Scripture teaches us this. In the Old Testament, “shepherd” is often royal language—kings were meant to be shepherds of the people. Later, this image extends to prophets and priests. But predominantly, “shepherd” means “king.” What’s fascinating in the New Testament is that this kingly image is redefined. The King is also the Servant. The Shepherd is the one who lays down his life.

Christian leadership—whether in the Church or outside of it—must take the form of service. Those who would lead must love. We are called, in every part of our lives, to identify with and imitate Jesus.

We see this in Acts, where Peter visits the grieving community after the death of Tabitha, a beloved disciple. There’s no indication that they expected him to raise her. They just hoped he would come and comfort them. This was a pastoral call. But Peter, imitating Christ, goes into the room and, in a scene that closely echoes Jesus’s raising of Jairus’s daughter, he tells her to arise. In Acts, we're told that Peter says, "Tabitha, get up” (Acts 9:40)—words that closely echo Jesus’s command in Luke: "Talitha koum” (Luke 8:54) ("Little girl, get up"). The resonance is not accidental. “Tabitha, get up…” Tabitha koum. Do you hear it? Tabitha, Talitha? Luke, the author of both accounts, invites us to hear Peter’s ministry as an echo of Christ’s own—right down to the syllables.

This is what it means to follow Jesus: to imitate him. And through that imitation, wonders can happen—not because of our power, but through God’s. People ought to be able to tell where we are taking our direction—from whom we are receiving our voice and values.

In John’s Gospel, we see another dynamic of Messiahship. Jesus is confronted at Solomon’s Portico and asked plainly, “Are you the Messiah?” And he essentially says, “I’ve already told you—but you cannot believe because you are not of my sheep.” It’s a matter not of clarity, but of recognition. For John, faith is not first about intellectual assent; it’s about following. Faith leads to understanding, not the other way around.

Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me (John 10:27).” To follow Jesus is to live like him, to walk his path. Think of John 14:6: “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life” (John 14:6). Jesus is not just the truth to be believed; he is the way to be walked. Discipleship is about behavior as well as belief.

When people say the Jews of Jesus’s day were expecting a “political” Messiah, they are partly right—but what they mean is a military leader who would overthrow Rome. Jesus is political, but in a radically different way. He fulfills the vision of Isaiah 11, where the Messiah from Jesse’s line will judge not by what he sees or hears, but with righteousness and equity: "He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth (Isaiah 11:3–4)."

The hope of Isaiah—and of the entire prophetic tradition—is that God himself will shepherd his people. God will not abandon us to merely human rulers. The critiques of bad shepherds in the prophets all build toward this climax: God will be the Shepherd. And in Jesus, God is the Shepherd. The Good Shepherd.

The Good Shepherd brings the flock together—a great multitude as we see in Revelation. The shepherds condemned by Scripture are precisely those leaders who seek to bolster their own authority by dividing people and alienating us from one another. Jesus, the Good Shepherd, operates differently, and so should we.

Revelation brings this into sharp relief with its layered imagery: God on the throne. Then the Lamb, the Shepherd, at the center of the throne. One throne. One God. And Jesus—fully God—is the Shepherd who saves. He is priest, sacrifice, and Savior.

And so, the message for us today is this: if our leaders lead with humility, if we ourselves act in ways consistent with the behavior of Jesus, we are on the right path. But when someone demands a kind of obedience or allegiance that places themselves at the center, that divides people while aggrandizing themselves, that should be a red flag.

Salvation belongs to our God (Revelation 7:10). That is both a word of warning and a word of hope. Because salvation belongs to God in Christ, it has been given to you and to me. And as Jesus says: "No one can snatch them out of my hand." No one can take us from him.

Amen.

O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of life; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Propers for Holy Saturday
Job 14:1-14 or Lamentations | Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16 | 1 Peter 4:1-8 | Matthew 27:57-66, or John 19:38-42

One of the gifts of my current position is being able to worship regularly with my family at Christ Church Cathedral. From our usual spot in the nave, I often find my gaze drawn to a stained glass window depicting the prophet Amos—a figure whose message has become increasingly resonant for me in recent years, especially as I’ve reflected on the nature of preaching in a divided society—partly out of the same ruminations that gave rise to The Gospel Plow.

Ever since the first Trump administration, I have been pondering with increasing urgency how one can faithfully preach in a divided country in which people's basic presuppositions about reality and facts are sometimes diametrically opposed, to say nothing of their prudential judgements about how to respond to realities they do agree on. In such a context, is preaching that takes seriously the fact that all of our actions and behavior, individually and collectively, stand under the Judgement of Christ, and that a central role of the preacher is to call attention to those areas where practices run afoul of the gospel, possible without having it dismissed as partisan?

What I’ve recognized, reflecting on that window, is this: Jesus Christ is the plumb line in the midst of a crumbling world—and this impacts how we ought to live, preach, and hope.

In the context of the Book of Amos, the vision of the plumb line occurs after various oracles against the nations. Israel and Judah are named, along with their neighbors, such as Damascus, Gaza, Tyre, Edom, Ammon, and Moab (1:3-2:16). Amos then emphasizes the call to the people to hear and heed God’s words. This call and command, as well as the warnings, are grounded in Israel’s covenant with God and their identity as his beloved people. “You only have I known, of all the families of the earth;” God says, “therefore I will punish you for all your iniquities” (Amos 3:2, NRSV). By the time we reach chapter 7, Amos has been hard at work condemning the people’s sins and failures, including, famously, their lack of care or concern for the poor. By the time we reach chapter seven, Amos has shared warnings with the people and he begins to recount five visions, of which the image of the plumb line is one:

This is what he showed me: the Lord was standing beside a wall built with a plumb line, with a plumb line in his hand. And the Lord said to me, “Amos, what do you see?” And I said, “A plumb line.” Then the Lord said,

“See, I am setting a plumb line
in the midst of my people Israel;
I will never again pass them by;
the high places of Isaac shall be made desolate,
and the sanctuaries of Israel shall be laid waste,
and I will rise against the house of Jeroboam with the sword” (Amos 7:7-9).

Before considering the ways in which the plumb line is a foreshadowing of Christ, there is some potential ambiguity in the text that should be addressed. Many scholars argue that the translation “plumb line” is likely somewhat inaccurate. Instead, it is argued, the word should be lead or tin. On the one hand, is an interpretation that sees God standing on the wall of Jerusalem, which is thought to bring safety, and he tears off a portion of the wall, dropping it to the ground as a sign to the people that they have put their trust in the wrong thing. As commentator Anthony Gelston notes, “The image would be that of [God] standing on a tin wall, tearing off a piece, and throwing it into their midst. The implication is that the metallic wall, which from a distance seems strong, is actually weak. All their pretense is vain; their defense will come down.”1 Other commentators note that if the word is lead, then it may well refer to a plummet and line (plumb line)—and has usually been taken as an image of testing. Here, there’s a key observation, that “plummet and line were also used in the demolition that preceded repairs.”2 While the commentator notes that this means it could be a symbol of destruction rather than testing, I find it interesting that it is also points to the demolition that precedes repairs.

Consider the purpose of a plumb line—it provides an external reference to tell you whether the walls of a building are square, or whether they are leaning to one side or another. Attaching the line to anything on the wall would defeat the purpose: it must be a reference that is independent of that which is measures. And this is, I believe, the way that Christians must faithfully live, and preachers must faithfully preach, in any time, but particularly in fraught and ideologically tumultuous times. We have to redouble our efforts to look toward Jesus, and to judge our actions and our commitments first and foremost by him.

Christ is the plumb line. In Jesus, God became human in order to show humans what true humanity entails. When we veer to the one side, or the other, and away from Jesus, and the way he taught us to be and to live, we necessarily veer away from the plumb line. I am not the only one to make this association. Early Christian scriptural interpreter, Origen, and the great hymn writer Ephrem the Syrian, both make the connection between Jesus and the hardness of lead (adamant Origen calls it). Both articulate the ways in which the forces of wickedness will break themselves upon the firmness of Jesus. Ephrem makes the connection with the plumb line itself explicit, while connecting it also to the imagery of Jesus as the cornerstone:

Jesus would lead his detractors to the point of judging themselves, saying, “What do the vinedressers deserve?” [Mt 21:40]. They decided concerning themselves, saying, “Let him destroy the evil ones with evil” [Mt 21:41]. Then he explained this, saying, “Have you not read that ‘the stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner?’” [Ps 118:22 (117:22 LXX); 1 Pet 2:7.]. What stone? That which is known to be lead. For see, he has said, “I am setting a plumb line in the midst of the sons of Israel.” To show that he himself was this stone, he said concerning it, “Whoever knocks against that stone will be broken to pieces, but it will crush and destroy whomever it falls upon” [Lk 20:18]. The leaders of the people were gathered together against him and wanted his downfall because his teaching did not please them. But he said, “It will crush and destroy whomever it falls upon,” because he had resisted idolatry, among other things. For “the stone that struck the image has become a great mountain, and the entire earth has been filled with it” [Dan 2:35].3

In Amos, the plumb line is set in the midst of the people—a visible marker of judgment. On Holy Saturday, Christ becomes that plumb line set in the very midst of death. Where the prophet saw ruin ahead, the Church sees redemption begun, because the one who judges also forgives, and the one who created, restores and rebuilds.

Yesterday was Good Friday, and those who attended services in the Episcopal Church likely participated in the veneration of the Cross. If so, you may have heard the following anthem from the Book of Common Prayer:

We glory in your cross, O Lord,
and praise and glorify your holy resurrection;
for by virtue of your cross
joy has come to the whole world.4

The Christian faith turns on reversal, but every reversal hinges upon one primary act—the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, which takes place in the context of Christ’s solidarity with humanity. We know the promise that the powerful and the powerless change places, the last become first and the first become last. This can happen because God provides the space and the template for this type of reversal and setting right through the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

Now we come to Holy Saturday, a day often overlooked in Christian imagination, yet one of profound theological weight. In the silence of this day, when no Eucharist is celebrated and the tomb remains sealed, Hans Urs von Balthasar invites us to contemplate the utter self-abandonment of the Son of God. In Mysterium Paschale, he writes that Christ’s descent into the dead is not merely a moment between crucifixion and resurrection, but the culmination of his obedience—a plunge into the dereliction of sin and death. By descending to the furthest edge of abandonment, to judge and transfigure it, Christ demonstrates his total identification and solidarity with us as finite human beings, “In that same way that, upon earth, he was in solidarity with the living, so, in the tomb, he is in solidarity with the dead.”5 On this day, he is the plumb line dropped to the depths of hell itself, revealing there is no place beyond the reach of redemption.

Rowan Williams in his book Resurrection: Interpreting the Easter Gospel notes how the “The exaltation of the condemned Jesus is presented by the disciples not as threat but as promise and hope. The condemning court, the murderous ‘city’, is indeed judged as resisting the saving will of God; but that does not mean that the will of God ceases to be saving.”6 This is why we can call the Friday when we commemorate the death of Jesus, “Good” and why we can say or sing an anthem in which way claim that “…by virtue of your cross joy has come to the whole world.” The plumb line of Jesus has been held up to the structures of this world and has found them lacking and harmful, but while there is judgment there, it is judgment that leads to redemption, destruction that will lead to renewal.

To my fellow preachers, I say, be ready to follow where scripture and your contemplation of Jesus’ ministry and teaching take you in regard to the messages you deliver. As always, consider your particular congregation: you will know their strengths, their weaknesses, the things at which they excel and the things that they find challenging in the Christian life. Demonstrate your care for them in the midst of your shared work and life, and trust that you will find the words to offer appropriate challenges to them so that they might see the dangers inherent in actions and practices they might otherwise accept without question. If we who proclaim the gospel are to be accused of partisanship, let it be as partisans for Christ who are unafraid to challenge the actions of anyone or any party who happens to be in power when their behavior runs counter to the gospel we proclaim and the Lord we serve. We must be willing to speak directly to issues of right and wrong without playing favorites or accepting excuses.

This is not a new idea. American Baptist and proponent of the Social Gospel Samuel Zane Batten argued in 1903 that “in every Christian Church there ought to be an atmosphere so intense, a sentiment so strong, a passion for righteousness so deep, that the political corruptionist and commercial sharper [i.e. swindler] should be compelled to reform or surrender [their] membership.”7 In the 1960’s Jesuit Gustave Wiegel wrote in the Atlantic that “The idea of salvation includes a way of life on earth, here and now. A way of life produces a visible comportment affecting others, and that must be a concern of the directors of the visible order of the commonwealth.”8 Speaking even more broadly, theologian and Archbishop of Canterbury William Temple, in his book The Hope of a New World states that “To worship is to quicken the conscience by the holiness of God, to feed the mind with the truth of God, to purge the imagination by the beauty of God, to open the heart to the love of God, to devote the will to the purpose of God.”9

It is, in other words, impossible to either worship or preach truthfully and faithfully without coming into conflict with many of the accepted ways of the world. This is a situation that could easily lead us to become judgmental and to replace the way of Jesus with our own way, to counter one person’s idolatry with our own. The only means to combat it is a combination of humility, faithfulness, and community—constantly looking toward Jesus not only on our own, but in solidarity with other Christians. Seeing things distinctively as individuals, and sharing them together as a community, while each centering ourselves on Christ, is one way to avoid going to extremes based on our own inclinations.

On this day, when Jesus’ body lay in the tomb while he proclaimed the message of salvation even to the spirits in prison, i.e. the dead (cf. 1 Peter 4:6 and look up “Harrowing of Hell”), we can be hopeful about the meaning of Christ with us, Christ as the plumb line, the moral measure of God’s people, the cornerstone of the Kingdom, the Judge—and also the strength and hope who empowers us to interrogate our own bias, tear down our own idols, and then speak truthfully to the world around us, saying what must be said in the name of Jesus.

As we sit in the quiet of Holy Saturday, may we allow the plumb line of Christ to drop in the midst of our lives—revealing what leans, what crumbles, and what, by God’s grace, might yet be renewed or rebuilt.

Some of you may know that I started a Doctor of Ministry Program at Duke Divinity School in August. I’ve enjoyed the program a great deal, but the reading and writing required for it, along with my regular work and family life, have kept me quite busy.

One of my courses is The Old Testament and Christian Leadership, co-taught by Doctors Ellen Davis and Sarah Musser. As with all of our classes, we write reading journals, and this is adapted from one of mine. I plan to share a number of these as time goes on, because much of my energy and time for writing will be going into these—so I might as well share them.

Some recent readings included the book of Leviticus, which is often eschewed by Christians. The reasons for this are complicated, but I think that Dr. Davis’ point about Christian ambivalence for Leviticus being entangled with Christian anti-Judaism is accurate and worth unpacking. It is also the case that Leviticus is an intriguing book, and that our failure to consider it impoverishes our faith and knowledge.

Two interrelated themes stood out to me as we reflected on Leviticus with the select commentators: limits and humility. Appropriate limits can foster right action, ethical behavior, and kindness; all facets of the holiness which Leviticus is concerned with. Each of these ultimately depend on humility (as does the fullness of our humanity).

The theme of limits is part of the character of Leviticus as practical and concerned with what I would describe as hereness. That is, Leviticus has as a central concern that we would be appropriately present to God, one another, ourselves, and creation: “[Leviticus] stands at the heart of Torah as a hedge against a faith abstracted from physical, material, social, and economic practices.”1 Any faith that is not abstract, but rooted in the reality of life and of being human, must necessarily deal in some way with limits. While we often focus on the peculiar gifts of humanity as the qualities that make us who we are, the things we cannot do, or do on our own, are at least as significant.

One example from the selected readings was the understanding that scripture seemingly presents the ideal of vegetarianism as a standard or measure for human interaction with other creatures. This is a significant limit, one that was amended, scripture tells us, after the flood. But even in concession, restricting the consumption of meat to herbivores keeps humanity closer to the central role of the earth and its produce, one step less entangled in the logic of predation than if we consume animals that prey on others.2

The sacrificial system highlighted human limitation by emphasizing life's dependence upon God and set a practical limit on meat consumption because of the necessity of bringing all animals to be slaughtered to the temple (Davis).

Overall, the practices of Leviticus reveal that "the central concern is maintaining the life-giving relationship between YHWH and Israel, and repairing it when that relationship inevitably falters and threatens to collapse."3 In this context, sacrifice is seen as the appropriate role of a priestly kingdom, in maintaining right relationship between themselves, the land, and God. More broadly, and applicable to the Church, is the sense in which preserving right relationship on behalf of all creation with God is a responsibility of the people of God that continues as we offer our sacrifices of praise and thanksgiving, "giving voice to every creature under heaven,"4 fulfilling the role of Homo laudans, the praising human.5

Humility emerged as a theme for me primarily in the observation that Christian perspectives of Leviticus have often shaped Christian anti-Judaism, and the insight Dr. Davis wrote of receiving from discussing Leviticus with a group of Sudanese people. Embracing humility is necessary to recognize that we need, in fundamental ways, to learn and re-learn how to read scripture, whether through insights from our Jewish neighbors, or fellow Christians in other parts of the world. It is also imperative that we learn to embrace humility, because our recognition of limits may be precisely the thing that keeps us acting humanely to one another.

1     O Lord, you have formed all that is;
       With your gracious and generous hand, *
           You shaped the land and all that depends upon it.

2     More ancient than the oldest mountains,
       More vibrant than the newest star; *
           Your creation recounts your story
           As the earth’s forever-maker.(1)

3      You laughed, and the mountains rose up like ripples.
           Because of your timeless mirth,*
           the streams found their courses,
               And rivulets a path.

4      As the fish leap at mosquitos above the waters,
        And the bear-cub bats a branch, *
           You delight in the stuff of creation;
           Its expanse and variety.

5      You teach the joy found in purpose,
           The delight of fellowship,
           With people and with all creation; *
               Matins with Wood Thrush and Warbler,
               Summer Evensong and night-talks to the sound of chirping frogs.(2)

6       I am among your creatures, Lord.
         When I am lost to myself, *
            You know exactly where I am found.
            You are never far,
               Though my distance is uncountable.(3)

7        Teach me to take account of your goodness
          Like the birds greet the morning *
          Remind me to take your offered blessing
                Like a cat jumps on a lizard’s tail,
                a puppy on the legs of a child.(4)

Notes

1. While this Psalm is not structured via an alphabet, in keeping with Dr. Davis’ sermon “The Alphabet of Adoration,” I was attempting to follow a sort of mental progression from the general (all things) to the more specific, the place where I started my life, the mountains (I was born and raised in Asheville, NC). I had memories of the Appalachians (I’m told, among the oldest mountains in the world) in my mind as I wrote, and I added verses as memories and images unfolded.

2. The second half of this verse has a double meaning for me–memories of praying the daily office on my porch, or other porches, and listening to the dawn chorus, or alternately, the crickets and frogs in the evening. On the other hand, the sounds of the woods, pond, or lake strike me as being like Morning or Evening prayer. This seems to me to be a reminder of something that Howard Thurman talks about, when he says that the idea that all of our lives are lived under the scrutiny of God is not necessarily a religious idea, that “if we examine our lives in detail, we will discover at the level of the personal history of the individual this fundamental idea has meaning and significance” Thurman, Thou Hast Searched Me, available from thurman.pitts.emory.edu.

3. Psalm 139 is a favorite of mine. I have read it in the midst of numerous pastoral situations. While I had not yet read all of today’s assigned readings when I wrote the psalm, I know 139 was in my mind–at least thematically–as I wrote these verses. “Where can I go then from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?”

4. Murrell, Shannon, and Adamo indicate that the Psalms were not written in a systematic way and that they “arose impromptu from a variety of individuals’ situations in life…as they lived, encountered, and negotiated both life’s traumas and life’s pleasantries. This psalm fits that categorization, in that I did not set out to write a particular kind of psalm, but instead let my mind flow prayerfully as I reflected on what came most immediately to mind to give God praise for.

Bibliography

Murrell, Nathaniel Samuel, David T. Shannon, and David T. Adamo. “PSALMS.” In The Africana Bible: Reading Israel’s Scriptures from Africa and the African Diaspora, edited by Nathaniel Samuel Murrell, Hugh R. Page, Randall C. Bailey, Valerie Bridgeman, Stacy Davis, Cheryl Kirk-Duggan, Madipoane Masenya (ngwan’a Mphahlele), and Rodney S. Sadler, 220–36. 1517 Media, 2010. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv19cwbj9.43.

“Alphabet of Adoration”, Sunday Morning Worship Service - 8/6/23 - Dr. Ellen Davis, accessed October 19, 2024,

The Proper Liturgies for Special Days is a section of the Book of Common Prayer that receives too little attention in my opinion. This is true not only in the sense that people may not actually experience all of the liturgies (for Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and the Easter Vigil), but also because we don’t reflect upon the aspects of our theology that they highlight.

Take Holy Saturday for example, perhaps the simplest liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer. There is no celebration of the Eucharist, to commemorate Christ’s body being laid in the tomb. There is provision for the use of a Collect of the Day, readings, and potentially a homily, an anthem, and a closing with the Lord’s Prayer.

It’s a deceptively simple liturgy, however, because underlying it is a wealth of reflection on the nature of Jesus’ death. Consider the one page layout below:

Holy Saturday

There is no celebration of the Eucharist on this day. 

When there is a Liturgy of the Word, the Celebrant begins with
the Collect of the Day 

O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the
crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and
rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the
coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of
life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever. Amen. 

Old Testament     Job 14:1-14, or Lamentations 3:1-9,19-24
Psalm      31:1-4,15-16
Epistle    1 Peter 4:1-8
Gospel    Matthew 27:57-66, or John 19:38-42 

After the Gospel (and homily), in place of the Prayers of the People, the
Anthem “In the midst of life” (page 484 or 492) is sung or said.

The service then concludes with the Lord’s Prayer and the Grace. 

I would like to focus on the epistle lesson assigned for the day, 1 Peter 4:1-8, which says:

Since therefore Christ suffered in the flesh, arm yourselves also with the same intention (for whoever has suffered in the flesh has finished with sin), so as to live for the rest of your earthly life no longer by human desires but by the will of God. You have already spent enough time in doing what the Gentiles like to do, living in licentiousness, passions, drunkenness, revels, carousing, and lawless idolatry. They are surprised that you no longer join them in the same excesses of dissipation, and so they blaspheme. But they will have to give an account to him who stands ready to judge the living and the dead. For this is the reason the gospel was proclaimed even to the dead, so that, though they had been judged in the flesh as everyone is judged, they might live in the spirit as God does.

The end of all things is near; therefore be serious and discipline yourselves for the sake of your prayers. Above all, maintain constant love for one another, for love covers a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4:1-8)

Specifically, I want to highlight a tradition of interpretation that attached to verse six, “For this is the reason the gospel was proclaimed even to the dead, so that, though they had been judged in the flesh as everyone is judged, they might live in the spirit as God does.”

Before getting into a little of the history of interpretation that attaches to this verse, I want to suggest that there is a link between this and the words Jesus says to Peter after his confession of faith, as recorded in Matthew’s Gospel:

[Jesus] said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven’ (Matthew 16:15-19).

What does it mean to say that the Gates of Hades (earlier translations used the term Hell) will not prevail against the Church?

The first thing to consider what is intended by this verse. The old translation of “hell” while not completely inaccurate could sow confusion. What is intended here is the abode of the dead, what in Hebrew was called “sheol” and in Greek, Hades. Obviously there were different nuances to the understanding of the afterlife between the Jewish people and the Greeks. Indeed, there were differences among Jewish people of the first century, just as there are some disagreements between Christians today.

But it would be most helpful to realize that this place of the dead was seen as the place where all the dead went, good or bad. There was some sense that there might be punishment awaiting the wicked, something depicted in Jesus’ story of Lazarus and the Rich man, where the rich man, traditionally called Dives, is in a place of torment where he can see Lazarus, who suffered in life, being comforted in “Abraham’s bosom,” from which Dives was separated by a great chasm. It is this idea of there being a place of torment that makes the translation of Hell not completely inaccurate, but incomplete and misleading—what is being spoken of here is not Hell solely as place of torment—eternal or otherwise—but quite simply the place where all the dead go.

It is also important to note that in many modern translations of the Bible, including the New Revised Standard Version above, the word translated “hell” by older versions translating Jesus’ promise that the gates of hell shall not prevail against the Church, is likewise translated Hades.

This is a case where the diversity of translations can give us some stepping stones to interpretation. For example, the Revised Standard Version translates the phrase as “you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the powers of death shall not prevail against it” (Matt. 16:18, RSV).

So what is happening here? Often, when there are multiple overlapping methods of translating something into English, it means there are varied or intricate meanings that are in play. In other words, it may be that one needs to consider all of these different possibilities to get at the heart of the matter, and the inspiration of the traditions of the Church that arise, sometimes very early on.

What I would propose to you is that Holy Saturday is the day when we commemorate a distinctive aspect of Christ’s defeat of the powers of Sin, Hell, Death, and the Devil. We can only commemorate it in such a way because we are commemorating it as an anniversary of an event in light of what comes after, namely the Resurrection. Try as we might in some of our morose observances, Christians can never fully get away from the light and the power of Easter, and thank God for it.

A key element of Christ’s defeat of the ancient powers arrayed against humanity and human flourishing, is the doctrine known as the Harrowing of Hell. This is a doctrine explicitly taught in Roman Catholic, Orthodox, and Lutheran Traditions, and it is a doctrine widely held among Anglicans. The distinction between Anglicans and the other traditions is that Anglicans, consistent with our conviction that no one be compelled to believe something which cannot be proven from Holy Scripture, do not teach it as a necessary conviction, but instead remain open to other interpretations.

The divergence on this question arises from what exactly is intended b the creedal phrase “he descended to the dead” or “he descended into hell.” Traditionally, the church interpreted Peter’s tantalizing comment about the gospel being proclaimed to the spirits in prison (1 Peter 4:6) as describing the work that Christ was doing in a spiritual sense while his body was in the tomb on Holy Saturday. The image above from Fra Angelico depicts the outworking of this idea, where you see Christ having kicked down the door to the Hell & Hades, and you see demons cowering in fear as Christ grabs the spirits of the departed and leads them away—breaking the power of Sin (by dying on the cross and restoring us to right relationship with God), Hell (by releasing its captives, consigned to their prior lot by sin), death (by not being limited or contained by it, and ultimately rising from death to new life), and the Devil (who awaits his ultimate defeat, but in the meantime exists no longer as the lord of this world, but as a stateless and powerless monarch, now that the Son of David has taken his rightful place on the throne).

In this vision of the Harrowing, Christ descended to the (abode of the) dead and preached the Good News of salvation to them.

The alternative vision of what this passage means is that the Spirit of Christ, as the Word of God, was active in earlier times through the preaching of the prophets, for example, and that those who heard experienced the same freedom as those who lived after the days of Jesus. This was the preferred understanding of John Calvin and his reformed followers.

Given that the Church of England was a Reformed Catholic Church with strong influences from, for example, the Lutherans, as well, it shouldn’t be a surprise that there was some disagreement about this particular doctrine. In Thomas Cranmer’s original 42 Articles of Religion (1553), the doctrine of the Harrowing of Hell was spelled out in Article 3:

¶ Of the goyng doune of Christe into Helle.

[ 3] AS Christ died, and was buried for vs: so al∣so it is to be beleued, that he went downe in to hell. For the bodie laie in the Sepulchre, vntill the resurrection: but his Ghoste departing from him, was with the Ghostes that were in prison, or in Helle, and didde preache to thesame, as the place of. S. Peter dooeth testifie.

When the Articles were revised under Elizabeth into the 39 Articles, Article 3 was simplified to allow a wider degree of latitude in interpretation:

3. Of the going down of Christ into Hell.

As Christ died for us, and was buried, so also is it to be believed, that he went down into Hell.

All of this, is interesting (at least it is to me) but it ultimately amounts to discussions about the means of something that everyone agrees occurred: Christ’s defeat of Sin, Hell, Death, and the Devil. And on Holy Saturday we commemorate the fact that Jesus fought and won a battle for us that we could not fight and win ourselves. And whether one prefers to use the language of Hell or Hades, or the Powers of Death—they are all defeated in Christ, and his promise to the Church remains true today: all of these forces are on the defensive against God’s Church, and their gates will not stand, and will not protect them. Amen.

As the spiritual says, “The Lord will fight my battles for me, and he has given the victory.”

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Quotes, Books & Resources Referenced

The story from E. Stanley Jones was recounted in Demaray, Donald E.., Johnson, Reginald. Spiritual Formation for Christian Leaders. United Kingdom: Abingdon Press, 2007.

Letter of St. Catherine of Sienna

Jesus "has climbed into the professorial chair of the cross, and teaches us doctrine, having written it on his body and made of himself a book, with initial letters so large that there is no man who is so illiterate or of little sight that he is not able to read it perfectly and easily. Read, then, read, our soul; in order to read more carefully, let the feet of our affection climb up to the affection of Christ crucified. Nothing else will allow you to read him so well."1

From the St. Augustine’s Prayer Book:

Devotions on the Passion

The cross is the abyss of wonders, the center of desires, the school of virtues, the house of wisdom, the throne of love, the theater of joys, and the place of sorrows. It is the root of happiness and the gate of heaven. There we may see a man loving all the world and a God dying for humanity...there we may see the most distant things in eternity united... It is the well of life beneath which we may see the face of heaven above and the only mirror wherein all things appear in their proper colors: that is, sprinkled in the blood of our Lord and Savior.

—Thomas Traherene, Centuries2

Crucifying3
By John Donne

By miracles exceeding power of man,
Hee faith in some, envie in some begat,
For, what weake spirits admire, ambitious, hate;
In both affections many to him ran,
But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,
Measuring selfe-lifes infinity to'a span,
Nay to an inch. Loe, where condemned hee
Beares his owne crosse, with paine, yet by and by
When it beares him, he must beare more and die:
Now thou art lifted up, draw mee to thee,
And at thy death giving such liberall dole,
Moyst, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul.

Digest

In his letter to the Romans, Paul addresses the importance of preaching to the Christian community when he writes:

But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent? As it is written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!’ But not all have obeyed the good news; for Isaiah says, ‘Lord, who has believed our message?’ So faith comes from what is heard, and what is heard comes through the word of Christ (Romans 10:14-17)

Interpreting and expounding on the word of God is an essential task of the Priest/Presbyter in the Church. I firmly believe that one of the primary characteristics of priests as elders is to serve as a living conduit within the community to the traditions that define it and shape its character.

So then the arc of responsibility in proclaiming the gospel, runs from an ability to present the truth of Christ to those who have never heard, and to those who have heard but need to be motivated, inspired, or comforted.

And while Episcopalians aren’t often identified with preaching these days, we do have a tradition of emphasizing its importance, a tradition I hope to tap into when I work with clergy in our Diocese. This year, as I work with our Ministry, Leadership, and Mission group (a monthly gathering of clergy new to the diocese—and occasionally other leaders in the diocese, lay or religious) I’ve revamped the section on preaching.

I start our Ministry, Leadership, and Mission year by asking people to listen to one of my favorite sermons, “When the roll is called down here,” by the late Fred Craddock. I ask folks to listen to it because it is a great example of two things I think are essential for clergy: the significance of preaching, and the fact that preaching well in a community requires a love for the people, eccentricities, warts and all.

The section on preaching is titled “Preaching: Pastoral, Prophetic, and Mission Oriented.” before we begin, I ask everyone to read the following:

• “The Life of Study” from Preaching by Fred Craddock

As the gathering is discussion oriented, I ask the attendees to “Pick one of the following to read and bring an essay, article or book to share that has inspired you in your preaching:”

I have handouts of the chapters, but I can’t share them online—and encourage folks to buy the books from which they come.

• “The Preacher as Reconciler” from The Preaching Event by John Claypool

• John Donne’s Strategies for Discreet Preaching

I can think of no greater tool for improving one’s preaching than listening to other preachers. It’s a pity then, that so many clergy rarely hear anyone other than themselves preach!

I wanted to gather a selection of different preaching styles and voices, as well as include some examples from special services, such as weddings or funerals. I ask participants to listen to one of more of the following. The goal is to help people identify that there are as many different potential styles of preaching as there are preachers—and to help them realize that they can take inspiration from others in finding their voices. A good preacher won’t imitate, but I think our styles eventually evolve to incorporate elements of what we’ve experienced elsewhere.

Below are the sermons I’ve chosen for this year’s session:

“Parables of Jesus, Part 2: Salvation, What is God Like?” by Howard Thurman

“By Any Means Necessary” by Otis Moss III 

“Alone in the Dark” by Fleming Rutledge

“Jesus Saves” by Dr. Fred Craddock

“While it was still dark” from the funeral of Rachel Held Evans by Nadia Bolz-Webber

“Love is the Way” from the wedding of Prince Harry & Meghan Markle, by Presiding Bishop Michael Curry

Finally, as a representative sermon from a contemporary Anglican, I ask folks to read the sermon “Hearts of Flesh” from A Ray of Darkness by Rowan Williams.

What sermons or preachers have inspired you over the years? Feel free to email me.