We All Need Grace

 

October 26, 2025 – The 20th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 25C

Joel 2:23-32; 2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18; Luke 18:9-14

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

Once upon a time, a group of clergy went on an ecumenical pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They represented a dozen denominations from their small, southern town, and, even though their churches rarely worked together, the clergy were interested in building meaningful relationships across sectarian boundaries. 

To the great frustration of the Episcopal priest on the trip, he was assigned as his roommate the pastor of the large non-denominational church in town. As far as that priest was concerned, the trip and everything it represented would be better if that pastor had stayed at home. His sermons about women and marriage and immigrants and the need for faithful Christians to resist the cultural slide into apostasy that had infected American culture were pretty much everything that Episcopal priest thought was wrong with contemporary Christianity. And now they were roommates.

All throughout the trip, the pastor took pictures with his phone, effortlessly crafting compelling social media posts about how he felt the Lord’s presence when he stood in those sacred places where Jesus had been. And, every time, the Episcopal priest did whatever he could to stay out of those pictures. “I don’t want any part of his manipulation of this pilgrimage to serve his ungodly purposes,” the priest whispered to a sympathetic colleague. 

When they came to the Jordan River and the place where John the Baptist had baptized Jesus, the tour guide invited the participants to come down into the river and reclaim their baptismal identity and seek the renewal of the Holy Spirit as they splashed themselves with the sacred water. The priest seized the opportunity, thinking to himself that if there was any hope for the renewal of Christianity it was here, in the place where John had helped God’s people prepare their hearts and minds to receive the Messiah by repenting of their sinful ways. 

The priest practically ran down the bank, strode confidently into the water, immersed himself beneath its surface, and stood up with outstretched arms, praying, “I thank you God that I am an Episcopalian and that I am not like other Christians who think that your word should be a weapon to serve their agenda. I show up at protests and rallies and march in the Pride parade every year. I drive an electric vehicle and eat vegetarian meals three times a week to combat climate change. I give ten percent of my income to the church in support of its work of sharing your love with all people.”

When he was finished praying, the priest looked all around for his roommate who, to his surprise, had disappeared from view. Walking back to the bus, he encountered the pastor, who was coming up from a part of the river that was out of sight of the other clergy. “What were you doing down there,” the priest asked scornfully, “filming another TikTok video for your flock?” 

“No,” the pastor replied gently. “This was the place where God’s people came out to heed the prophet’s call of repentance. Baptism is something that all Christians share. These waters proclaim a hope in God’s love and mercy that are far bigger than me or my ministry. I didn’t feel worthy enough to try to capture that in a social media post, so I walked down there, where no one could see me, and said my prayers quietly.” 

The tour guide who overheard the exchange leaned over to the bus driver and said, “I tell you, this man is going home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

I love the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. I think we all do. But it’s easier to love it when we can see ourselves in the humility of the penitent sinner and hold the arrogance of the self-righteous narcissist at arm’s length. But, if we’re honest, is there anyone more likely to trust in their own righteousness and regard others with contempt than Episcopalians?

Deep down, though, I think there’s a little bit of both in all of us. All of us are a mixture of self-confidence and self-doubt—of religious pride and religious fear. Some of us tend more toward one side than the other, but all of us need the same grace. And, in this parable, Jesus teaches us that true faithfulness is complete and utter dependence upon that grace no matter who you are.

Two thousand years later, we are so familiar with the stereotypes of Pharisees and tax collectors that we need some help reimagining this parable or else we’ll be guilty of assuming that Jesus’ words are intended for someone else and have nothing to teach us. We forget just how religious and faithful and holy the Pharisees really were. We imagine that all of them were hypocrites because that’s the way they are usually portrayed in the gospel, but the faithfulness of the Pharisees was generally above reproach. They were the kinds of generous, prayerful people whom any rabbi would love to have serve on the synagogue’s vestry. But, when good and faithful people forget that their acts of faithfulness do not make them better than anyone else, their religion quickly becomes an exercise in self-righteous condemnation. 

Tax collectors, on the other hand, were paragons of faithlessness. They made their living doing the very worst thing imaginable: extorting money from their neighbors in order to support the oppressive empire and line their own pockets with the proceeds. They were partners in crime with the enemies of God and God’s people, and it was safe to assume that they had long ago given up on any hope of redemption. But even the very worst sinner imaginable—even the one whose entire life seems devoted to everything God stands against—is loved by God and redeemed by grace.

Where on that spectrum of Pharisee and tax collector do you fall today? Are you like the Pharisee, who finds it hard to believe that God’s grace and mercy are just as much a part of the lives of your enemies as your own? Or are you like the tax collector, who has a hard time believing that God’s grace and mercy are meant for you as well? All of us need God’s grace, and all of us are called to recognize that God’s grace belongs to all people. 

This church and its people do amazing things. We believe that our doors should be open to everyone. We believe that anyone who feels drawn to this table is welcomed here, not only by Jesus but by all of us. We believe that sharing God’s love with the world means more than preaching sermons and teaching Bible studies. We think loving others in Jesus’ name means feeding hungry people and helping those who are unhoused find a secure place to call home. And we do all of those good and godly things not because we are better than anyone else or because we think that God will love us more if we do them. We do those things because we know that God has loved us and forgiven us and redeemed us in Jesus Christ and because people who know the power of that love cannot keep it to themselves.

Today is Celebration Sunday, when we invite every household in the church to make a financial commitment to God’s work in the world for the coming year. Today, we invite you to do what that Pharisee did—to give ten percent of your income back to God. But, if you’re planning to fill out your estimate of giving card because you think that makes you better than other people or because your generosity puts you first in line to receive God’s blessings, don’t do it. You’d be better off putting that card in your pocket and taking it home and asking God to help you remember that God’s love belongs equally to everyone before giving one penny to the church.

Everything we do as an expression of our relationship with God must be a response to God’s love, not a prerequisite for it. Saying our prayers, reading the Bible, going to church, loving our neighbor, serving the poor, and giving money back to God—all of that is done in gratitude for God’s grace, not in search of God’s mercy. When thankfulness is the root motivation for our spiritual practices, including stewardship, those practices deepen our relationship with God. When we’re trying to earn God’s favor through them, they undermine that relationship instead.  

As soon as we allow ourselves to believe that God loves some people more than others, we will find a way to convince ourselves either that we’re the ones whom God loves best or we’re the ones whom God will never love. And neither of those is right. God loves you. In Jesus, God has made you worthy. Through Christ, God has invited you to sit down at God’s banquet table where you belong alongside everyone else. Let your generosity reinforce that belief by making it a way for you to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. Let your stewardship be a way of rejoicing in God’s salvation for you and all people.

Saying Yes To God

 

October 5, 2025 – The 17th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 22C

Lamentations 1:1-6; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:1-10

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

A couple of weeks ago, on my day off, I drove to Mt. Magazine to meet a friend and look for hawks. Late September is a good time to spend several hours looking up for migrating raptors, and, because of some near-perfect weather conditions, we had a good day. On the way back, I stopped at the Harps grocery store in Ozark for a snack. After perusing the sunflower seeds, mixed nuts, and chips, I spotted the perfect choice. A package of red, white, and blue peanut-butter M&Ms left over from the Fourth of July was on deep discount, and, if there’s anything I love more than peanut-butter M&Ms, it’s a good deal. 

I took my candy to the register to check out, but they didn’t ring up on sale. I politely informed the cashier that I had expected that item to ring up for a lower price, and she promptly said, “Well, let’s go check it out.” We both walked over to the shelf, and she verified the discounted price, and then we went back to the register to complete the now-corrected transaction. She apologized for the mistake, for which I thanked her and told her it wasn’t a big deal, and then I walked to my car to call Elizabeth and tell her about the interaction.

In our twenty years of marriage, I bet Elizabeth has heard me tell a story about a wrong price at the grocery store at least a hundred times. It doesn’t matter to me if the line at the customer service counter is so long that I’ll have to wait 15 minutes in order to get my 17 cents. I love a bargain, and an error at the grocery store which threatens to rob me of the satisfaction of knowing that I saved 17 cents on apples is enough to send me into a self-righteous tizzy. But can you guess what bothers me the most? It’s when the person at the store who fixes the mistake doesn’t say sorry. I never get into the car and call Elizabeth upset because they got the price wrong. I call to tell her how angry I am when I have to stand in line to fix their mistake and no one bothers to apologize.

I think it’s easier to forgive monetary debts than emotional ones. I think it’s easier to let go of a few dollars than the slight they represent. I’m like George Costanza with the big salad: I don’t want the money as much as I want credit for being a conscientious shopper. And that’s why Jesus teaches us that we must focus on the financial life of discipleship before we can attend to the spiritual life. 

“Be on your guard!” Jesus tells the apostles. “If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.” These words at the beginning of Luke 17 represent yet another hard teaching about the kingdom of God. For the last five chapters, Jesus has been explaining what it takes to be one of his followers. We must put our trust not in earthly treasure but in the riches of heaven. We must use the dishonest wealth of this life to secure for ourselves a welcome among the saints. We must choose as our dinner guests those who would never be able to pay us back. We must give up all of our possessions in order to meet the needs of the poor. But none of those challenging teachings elicits from the apostles the level of concern as this last instruction about forgiveness.

When Jesus lays out the requirement that his followers must forgive anyone who repents no matter how many times they need forgiveness, the disciples cry out in desperation: “Lord, increase our faith!” Not everything Jesus has said about discipleship up to this point involves money, but much of what he has taught the disciples has. This feels like the straw that would break the camel’s back. As my grocery store escapades suggest, I’m not saying that the financial aspects of discipleship come easily, but I do think that the demand for radical, limitless forgiveness requires a kind of faith not easily found, even among the faithful.

“Increase our faith!” the disciples beg Jesus, and Jesus replies, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Even the smallest measure of the right sort of faith, Jesus tells them, is enough to work miracles. The issue, therefore, is not how much faith we have but what kind of faith it is. Throughout Luke’s gospel account, faith is presented not as something to be possessed but as a way of life to be pursued. The disciples’ request for more faith is, in effect, a request for Jesus’ help living the faithful life to which he has called them. And the answer he gives is shockingly simple but culturally complex.

When a slave comes in from plowing a field or tending the sheep, do you ask him to sit down while you wait on him and bring him some supper? No, Jesus explains in a rather unpalatable metaphor. You expect the servant to do his job and only afterwards to take care of his own needs. 

Debt-slavery or indentured servitude was a way of life in first-century Palestine. There is nothing good or right or holy about claiming ownership of another human being in any age. I’d rather Jesus reject the institution of slavery outright and find another way to make his point. Later in Luke’s gospel account, Jesus identifies himself as a slave who came to serve rather than to be served, which makes it feel a little better, but ultimately it doesn’t solve the problem. I think the right thing for us to do is to decry the ways that passages like this one have been used to support the subjugation of human beings and to insist that any wisdom we glean from them not be based on the sinful belief that any lives are less valuable or precious than others. 

Leaving behind the servant-master metaphor, the point that Jesus is making is that the faith we need to be a part of God’s reign comes through a lifetime of small, ordinary, dutiful actions that we pursue not because we want recognition for them but because they are simply the hallmarks of a life that belongs to God. The invitation to deep faithfulness, therefore, is an invitation to carry out simple things in faithful ways. It is the little things done well and done for the reign of God that teach us what true faithfulness looks like. 

I think that’s why Jesus talks about money so much—because making small, practical, and faithful decisions about how we use our money teaches us how to make big, impractical, and equally faithful decisions about how we live the rest of our lives. After all, it’s easier to forgive a financial debt than an emotional one, but learning how to do simple things—like giving some of our money to help those in need—prepares us to do those difficult things—like giving up our lives for the sake of the gospel. If you want to know how to make miracles happen in your life, commit to small, simple acts of faithfulness, and you will become a vessel for God’s amazing work in the world.

That’s why we spend so much time and effort talking about stewardship. It’s not because we’re trying to raise money for the church. Yes, St. Paul’s depends upon your generosity to carry out all the ministries we provide, but stewardship isn’t designed to fund our budget. It’s designed to provide an important, tangible, practical way for all of us to grow in faith. When you decide to give some of your money back to God, you are making a free choice to prioritize the work of God’s reign in your life. And that small but significant decision opens your heart to God.

How much should you give? The biblical example held up by the church is the tithe—or ten percent. Historically, that’s enough to represent a real offering of yourself to God without imposing real financial hardship. But, whether it’s ten percent or two percent, you should give enough to make a difference in your life. Our family gives thirteen percent—not because we want the vestry to pat us on the back but because that’s the amount that allows us to grow in our faith. That’s the amount that teaches us how say yes to God.

It sounds simple, but committing a small but significant portion of my income to God’s work in the world has helped me learn how to live a faithful life. My finances are something over which I largely have control. Making a commitment to God in a part of my life that I can control has taught me how to remain committed to God in the parts that are beyond my control. It starts by shaping my attitude toward money but quickly grows beyond that. 

Instead of wanting to be rich, I want to be generous. Instead of wanting to be in control, I want to trust God. Instead of wanting to be right, I want to be kind. None of that happens without God’s help. I’m not perfect. Just ask the person behind the customer service counter when I’ve been overcharged for an item. But stewardship teaches me that I can say yes to even the most difficult demands of discipleship because stewardship teaches me that I belong to God—not only with a part of my life but with all that I have and all that I am.

Setting Us Free

 

August 24, 2025 – The 11th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 16C

Jeremiah 1:4-10; Hebrews 12:18-29; Luke 13:10-17

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

For eighteen years, she made her way through the town, shuffling along, never once making eye-contact with another human being. Her spinal condition forced her gaze down to the ground. Looking as if she might topple forward at any minute, this bent-over woman was both familiar to everyone in the community and also completely foreign to them. Her name we are not told, and we, like those in the town, behold her as nothing more than her condition—her posture. 

For eighteen years, this unnamed woman was weighed down, bent closer to the earth not only by the deformity of her spine but also by the uncharitable thoughts of her neighbors. No one ever said it out loud, but she could hear the way that parents, who held their children a little closer when she shuffled by, and upright and upstanding members of society, who stared without fear of being seen by the object of their scrutiny, declared through their actions their suspicion that this woman—or one of her ancestors—had done something to deserve this twisted fate.

Without realizing it, we put distance between ourselves and those whose burdens society cannot relieve. We are comforted by the separation between us and them—a space that permits us to ignore our inability to do anything about them. We find relief in not having to come right up next to someone whose illness or disability or misfortune could very well be our own—someone whose condition we cannot obviously attribute to a mistake of their own choosing. To know the names of the innocent and helpless is to invite them into our lives, into our prayers, into our anxieties, into our tortured dreams.

Jesus is different. Fully aware of both his belovedness and that of the woman, he sees her and calls her over, bringing her in close. Recognizing at once both the physical and spiritual affliction that has held this woman in bondage for so long, he sets her free. And, when Jesus lays his hands on her, immediately she stands up straight and begins praising God. The instantaneous transformation of this woman’s bent-over humility into an up-stretched posture of praise must have filled the congregation’s hearts with awe and wonder at the glory of God. But there was a problem: this day was a sabbath.

I think we Gentiles who live in a community with a relatively small Jewish population have a hard time appreciating the beauty and centrality of sabbath observance. Its strangeness evokes a fascination that borders on disparagement. I remember as a child learning about the sabbath in Sunday school and, backed by the writ of holy scripture, declaring to my parents that I no longer had to mow the grass on Saturday mornings. But you can guess how well that went over.

The Jewish tradition of sabbath observance is based on an understanding that we and all of creation were made for the sacred return to God that is the sabbath. The day of rest is not built into the weekly calendar so that the other six days might be more productive. The other six days of work allow us to attain the pinnacle of the week—the zenith of our creatureliness—which is the glorious resting in God that the sabbath provides. And, in the time of Jesus, sabbath observance was of central importance not only because of its inherent sacredness but also because it helped God’s people maintain a distinct and faithful identity in a wider Gentile culture that left very little room for their survival.

When the president of the synagogue, whose position gave him the authority and responsibility of holding the congregation to a life of faithfulness, saw what Jesus did, he felt duty-bound to act. “There are six days on which work ought to be done,” he said to the crowd, “come on one of those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” His was a plea for faithfulness. All of his training—a lifetime of study and religious practice—helped him know that this out-of-bounds healing could threaten everything that God’s people held dear. The prophets had rightly been critical of those who disregarded the sabbath for their own benefit. That sort of moral corruption had led to the downfall of Jerusalem and the destruction of Solomon’s temple centuries earlier. When the people of God forget the traditions that bind them to God and to their ancestors, they risk losing everything. And faithful leaders like the leader of this synagogue know what they must do to prevent that. 

Jesus, however, will have none of it. “You hypocrites!” he declares to all whose religious instincts would prevent them from seeing what God is up to in this moment. “You untie your ox or donkey on the sabbath in order to lead it to water. How much more, then, should this daughter of Abraham be untied from her bondage to Satan in order that she might praise God on this sabbath day?” By invoking Satan, Jesus names what is really going on here. He shifts our frame of reference from a strictly medical diagnosis to a cultural, religious, systemic affliction that has kept this woman bent over for nearly two decades. And the desire to maintain a system that would, even for a day, delay this woman’s healing is nothing less than satanic. 

Remember that Jesus is not attacking Judaism—the faith that he held dear—or even this synagogue leader, whose words represented a reasonable application of sabbath law. He is attacking any and all religious institutions and leaders that would prioritize the perpetuation of their own comfort and power at the expense of the weak, vulnerable, and oppressed. Jesus names as satanic those religious practices that devalue the God-imaged humanity of a person because of their gender, their disability, their poverty, or their illness in ways that express a preference for their continued subjugation over their promised liberation.

Such has been the way of the Christian church for centuries. As Tertullian, the Father of Western Christianity, wrote, “No woman who has come to know the Lord and learned the truth about her own (that is, the female) condition would wish to adopt too cheerful (still less ostentatious) a mode of dress. Rather, she would go about in humble clothing, with a downcast air, walking like Eve in mourning and penitence.” [1] Or, as Thomas Aquinas, whose teachings have been likened to that of the angels, wrote, “As regards the individual nature, woman is defective and misbegotten, for the active force in the male seed tends to the production of a perfect likeness in the masculine sex; while the production of a woman comes from a defect in the active force or from some material indisposition.” [2]

Theologians like these, whose treasured writings have shaped the faith that has been passed down to us, remind us just how much even faithful people instinctively prefer the bowed-down bondage of others when that bondage reinforces their own important status. If we hear the story of Jesus’ liberation of this daughter of Abraham on the sabbath day and do not recognize within it God’s will that all whose oppression has been enabled or supported by Mother Church throughout the centuries be set free, we are not hearing God’s Word faithfully. And, if we do not recognize and repent of the damage we have done to individuals and families by disparaging their gender, their marital status, their ability, their poverty, their illness, or their mental state, we are guilty of siding with Satan.

Jesus shows us that God’s saving love transcends and ultimately destroys all our attempts to constrain it, even and especially when those attempts are masked by a self-proclaimed desire for faithfulness. In his willingness to take upon himself the very brokenness of humanity, Jesus eliminates any distance we would create between us and those who embody our failures. When we accept the salvation that he brings, we must, therefore, abandon our preference for that distance—that separation which allows us the illusion of superiority. We can no longer categorize someone else as “other” because, in Christ, we are all one. Whenever someone who has been bent down under the weight of satanic oppression is set free from their burden and allowed to assume their full, God-given stature, all of us share in that victory, for their liberation is our liberation, and their triumph is God’s triumph in us.

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1. Tertullian, On the Apparel of Women I, quoted in Jeffrey John, The Meaning in the Miracles, Canterbury Press; Norwich: 2001, 210.

2. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica I.92, quoted in Jeffrey John, The Meaning in the Miracles, Canterbury Press; Norwich: 2001, 211.

How To Pray Part Two: What To Pray

 

July 13, 2025 – The 5th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 10C

Amos 7:7-17; Psalm 82; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon will be available soon. Video can be seen here.

“How long will you judge unjustly, and show favor to the wicked? Save the weak and the orphan; defend the humble and needy.”

With those words, the psalmist gives voice to the world’s desperate plea for justice and deliverance. This is our cry—the cry of all human beings whose hearts are even the least bit susceptible to the plight of the weak and the poor. Psalm 82 is a prayer for the sort of justice that only God can give—the setting-right of the world that we recognize as the unique domain of the God of our ancestors. When we say this prayer, we call upon the name of that God, and, in so doing, we become channels through which the Almighty One brings God’s justice to the earth by making that justice manifest in our lives.

Today, I am preaching the second of three sermons in a row about prayer. If you missed last week, don’t worry. You can read or listen to it online or pick up a copy on the table by the front door of the church. Last week, we focused on the when of prayer. When do we pray? What moment in time does our prayer occupy? The answer I offered is that prayer always happens in that threshold time between our gratitude for what God has done and our hopeful anticipation of what God will do. Because our prayers are always grounded in the gratitude of generational hindsight, we are able to invoke with confidence God’s name and God’s promise of salvation as we step through that threshold and into what lies ahead. Prayer is how we bring God with us—or, more accurately, how we remain tethered to God—as we move forward. And that means that every day must start with prayer. 

Last week, I challenged you to begin each morning with prayer and, in so doing, place everything that the day will bring in subjection to the presence and authority of God. How did it go? Did you make it? Did you start every day with prayer? If not, that’s okay. It took me years of trying to get into the habit of saying my prayers first thing, and it’s a way of life I still need to return to from time to time. Don’t give up. Every day is new.

This week, I want to talk about the what of prayer—the words we say or, in some cases, don’t say. And I want to start by asking a question that has bothered me ever since I was a child: if Jesus promises to hear and answer every prayer that we ask in his name, how do we know that we’re praying for the right thing? If good, faithful, Christian soldiers on both sides of the battlefield are praying for victory—a victory which necessarily comes at the cost of their enemies’ lives—whose prayer gets answered?

I don’t think prayer works like that. Prayer isn’t wish-fulfillment. Prayer is the language of intimacy with God. It is our love language which we speak to our beloved not only with our lips but with our hearts and minds and souls and lives. It is how we communicate with the one to whom we belong. Prayer is our response to the union with God that God makes possible in each one of us—the union which we, as Christians, recognize and pursue through Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word. Prayer, in the end, isn’t actually what we say to God but what God says in us and through us in the person of Jesus Christ. 

How can we, mere mortals, ever ascend to the exalted throne of God and dare to speak to the Almighty One? Because Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word, who has taken upon himself our fragile human nature and in whose glorious divinity we now stand, brings us there—redeemed by his death, covered in his mercy, and protected by his love. We stand boldly in the presence of God within Jesus Christ, who there intercedes on our behalf. Prayer, therefore, is Christ speaking in us and us speaking in him. And that means that the words we use in prayer must, by God’s grace, be nothing less than the words that Christ himself will use. Prayer is where our words become God’s Word as God’s Word becomes our words. And that means that, if we’re looking for the right words to say, there’s no better place to start than the psalms. 

The psalms are the prayer book of all of God’s people. As holy scripture, they are the Word of God—the same capital-W Word that, in Christ, became flesh. Those who pray the psalms are, in effect, speaking God’s Word back to God in prayer. In a mystical way that defies our understanding, because Jesus Christ, the Son of David, was within the body of his ancestor when King David wrote the psalms, even David, we believe, the one whose heart belonged to God, prayed within the same Word in which we pray as members of the Body of Christ. That means that, when we lift up our voice in the words of the psalms, we pray in Christ by praying in God’s Word. 

Look again at the words of Psalm 82, and hear how they give voice to the will of God by proclaiming the Word of God. “God arises in the council of heaven and gives judgment in the midst of the gods.” This psalm is a courtroom drama, which we enact every time we pray it. This prayer gives voice to God’s great summons to the powers—the gods—of this world, which are inferior to and subject to the Almighty. 

“How long will you judge unjustly,” our God declares, interrogating all who claim authority in this world. “How long will you show favor to the wicked?” With these words, God’s Word proclaims God’s judgment upon those powers, and, by saying these words, we join in the affirmation of God’s justice. “Rescue the weak and the poor,” God says to the powers of this world. “Deliver them from the power of the wicked,” we say in unison with God because we know that this is God’s will.

No matter how powerful the forces that rule this world appear to be, this psalm reminds us that they are powerless before God. Their mortality and frailty are exposed in the divine courtroom. Their folly is on display. “You shall die like mortals,” we pray, giving voice to an everlasting truth. “You shall fall like any leader,” we pray, standing in solidarity with those whom they would oppress. We pray this prayer until God’s judgement upon the powers of this world is complete: “Arise, O God, and rule the earth, for you shall take all nations as your own.”

Whenever we pray the psalms, we know that we are speaking God’s Word to God—that Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word, is praying within us and that we are praying within him. These are his words, and he has given them to us to be our words. But, of course, these are not the only words or prayers of Jesus. When the disciples asked Jesus to teach them how to pray, he taught them the prayer that we say every time we gather in worship: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” All the prayers that we offer in Christ, including the psalms, are found in the words and in the form that Jesus taught us.

So why not simply pray the Lord’s Prayer over and over and leave all the other prayers behind? For the same reason that we say “Black lives matter” instead of “all lives matter” even though we believe that all lives matter. Why? Because God allows us to pray for the particular and urgent needs of the world and of our hearts by naming before God the people and situations who need God’s justice, mercy, love, and salvation. But, when we lift up to God those particular needs, we do so by remembering that we stand within Jesus Christ who intercedes for them on our behalf. The goal of our intercessory prayers, therefore, is to bring those we love into the union we share with Christ.

Sometimes we seek that union by reading and meditating on other passages of holy scripture besides the psalms. Although they may not be prayers in and of themselves, the Word of God is present in all the words of the Bible, and, through spiritual practices like Lectio Divina, we can listen to a passage of scripture and then sit quietly with God’s Word and listen for what the divine is speaking back to us. In that way, even silence itself can be prayer. Although it takes practice and sometimes requires a coach or a mentor, centering prayer or meditative silence is how we seek union with Christ in wordless prayer. I also believe that the Holy Spirit gives some individuals the gift of tongues—the ability to pray God’s Word in the power of the Spirit with utterances beyond human comprehension. 

If some of that sounds scary, good! It is scary! It is terrifying to stand in the presence of God and dare to speak, whether with words or with silence or with what St. Paul calls a groaning too deep for words. But we dare to speak because God has invited us to dwell within God’s Son, the Incarnate Word, who intercedes in us and through us and for us. 

This week, I want you to try something new. I want you to continue to pray first thing every day, but this week I want you to make the psalms a part of your prayers. At the top of the Epistle insert, you will see a link to prayer.forwardmovement.org/pray. That link will take you to the Daily Office. If you want to say the whole thing, go for it. Morning and Evening Prayer are the principal services of daily prayer in our tradition. But that might be too much. Near the beginning of the office, you will find the psalms appointed for the day. If you just read through those psalms and ask God to make them the prayers of your heart, you will make God’s Word the focus of your prayer. Do that and say the Lord’s Prayer each morning, and your prayers will begin to deepen your connection with God, which, after all, is the goal of prayer. Next week, we will finish the series by asking why we pray, and I hope you’ll come back.

How To Pray Part One: When To Pray

 

July 6, 2025 – The 4th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 9C

2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 30; Galatians 6:1-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here. 

Do you ever feel like the constant barrage of bad news is pushing God out of your life? Where are we supposed to look for God in a world in which wars are waged without any sign of ceasing? Where is God to be found in a world in which the poor and vulnerable are repeatedly trampled upon by the rich and powerful? Where is God hiding in a world in which a flash food rages in the middle of the night and sweeps 27 little girls away, presumably to a terrible and terrifying death?

A part of us knows that somehow God is still here—still with us even though the headlines bring unrelenting news of insurmountable struggle—but it feels like that part of us is shrinking under the weight of the pain and grief which show no sign of abating. How do we hold onto God? How do we hold onto hope? How do we maintain any shred of confidence that God is still God and that one day God’s love will win? The answer is prayer. 

Prayer gives life and energy to our faith. If God’s love is the foundation upon which our faith is built, prayer is the blueprint by which that faith takes shape. Prayer is how our relationship with God is enfleshed. It is the tool through God shapes us into the people God has created us to be. It is the channel through which God’s love takes hold of our lives and the world around us. It is the means by which the reign of God continues to grow and spread and push back against the forces of evil that dare to encroach upon it. It is the thing that keeps us anchored in God even and especially when life’s storms rage against us and against the people we love. But how many of us know how to pray?

Today, I am beginning a three-week sermon series on prayer because I believe that there is nothing more important for us to learn right now than how to pray. If you grew up in a mainline Protestant denomination like this one, there is a good chance that no one ever taught you how to pray. But all of us need to be taught. Those of us who were told that prayer is nothing more than speaking to God as if God were our friend probably gave up on prayer a long time ago. God is our friend, but prayer is more than pouring out our heart to a sympathetic ear. 

Prayer is how we speak to God in the person of Jesus Christ. Prayer is how Jesus brings us into himself and speaks the needs of our hearts to God on our behalf. Prayer is Christ praying within us and us praying within him. It is the nexus—the crucible—in which our humble words become nothing less than the Word of God and, in turn, in which God’s Word becomes our words. Prayer is the means by which our entire lives are united to God as expressed in the beautiful words that Jesus taught us to say: Our Father. Prayer like that doesn’t happen by itself. The request that the disciples made of Jesus must become our request as well: “Lord, teach us to pray.”

Learning to pray is not a one-time experience. All of us, including preachers like me, need to learn again and again how to pray—how to grow in prayer. Although I have some experience and expertise to pass along, this sermon series is as much a shared exploration as a lesson from an expert, and I hope it will be valuable for all of us. This morning, I want to focus on the timing of prayer—the when of our prayer. Next week, I’ll explore the words that we are supposed to say—the what of our prayer. Finally, in the third week, I’ll talk about the purpose of prayer—the why of our prayer. Each week, I will use the psalm appointed for the day as the starting point for our exploration, and I hope to give you something practical that you can take home and try out as a way of learning how to pray. Now, let’s start with today’s psalm.

“I will exalt you, O Lord, because you have lifted me up.” With those words, the psalmist begins the thirtieth psalm, and we already hear in them an important lesson for the timing of prayer. The psalmist promises to exalt and praise God because of something God has already done. That is how all prayer begins—in response to God, the one in whom all things have their origin. In effect, all our prayers are prayed in hindsight—with gratitude for what God has done. Not every prayer is a prayer of thanksgiving, but prayer itself is a thank offering to God. The very fact that we can pray at all is a testament to God’s loving kindness. 

Somewhere along the way, the psalmist’s personal prayer of thanksgiving became the prayer of the entire worshipping community. “Sing to the Lord, you faithful servants,” the psalmist bids the congregation. “Give thanks for the remembrance of God’s holiness.” The psalmist invites us to pray by inviting us to remember. Even if the saving work that we are asked to bring to mind is not a recollection of our own deliverance, God’s goodness, which is manifest throughout history, is reason enough for us to pray. It is the remembrance of God’s saving love that locates us and our prayers at a particular moment in salvation history. It is gratitude for what has been that brings us to the threshold of asking God for what will be.

Not every prayer is a joyful thanksgiving. The psalmist acknowledges that hardship comes even to those who are faithful: “While I felt secure, I said, ‘I shall never be disturbed. You, Lord, with your favor, made me as strong as the mountains.’ Then you hid your face, and I was filled with fear.” Even those who rightly attribute to God their strength and security are subject to pain, loss, and suffering. Things change. It feels like the God who was beside us all along has suddenly hidden Godself from us. In an instant, our feelings of invincibility give way to a tidal wave of inadequacy. Our prayers of thanksgiving become prayers of desperation. “Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me,” the psalmist prays, “O Lord, be my helper.”

But the psalmist also reminds us that the prayers we utter in our moments of deepest need are the channels through which our faith in God is maintained. “What profit is there in my blood, if I go down to the pit?” the psalmist pleads with God. “Will the dust praise you or declare your faithfulness?” In effect, the psalmist is reminding himself that his life has value to God because his life is a song of praise. With whom are we really bargaining when we plead with God like that? Do we expect God to be convinced by our words, or are we really just convincing ourselves that, no matter what direction our life takes, its true purpose is found in glorifying God? Prayer, therefore, is how we remind ourselves that, no matter what happens, we belong to God. 

Whenever we pray, therefore, our prayers inhabit that place where God’s eternal goodness becomes new all over again. “Weeping may spend the night,” the psalmist declares, “but joy comes in the morning.” Prayer must be a daily pursuit because every day is an opportunity for us to reclaim our place in the story of salvation—to reground ourselves in God’s loving kindness whether that day will bring joy or sorrow, celebration or hardship. When the psalmist says, “My heart sings to you without ceasing…I will give you thanks for ever,” he is not promising to inundate God with a cascade of incessant utterances but is recommitting himself to the practice of praising God every day of his life. That must be our commitment as well.

In short, prayer always happens at that moment when our gratitude for what is past brings us to a moment of need and then transforms that moment into a threshold for our participation in God’s love, which stretches out ahead of us. And prayer is what turns that particular moment into an unending place in which we dwell with God.

I want to invite you to try something this week: I want you to start every day with prayer. It doesn’t have to be long. It doesn’t have to be formal. It can be as simple as saying the Lord’s Prayer, or, if that feels like too much, you can just say, “O God, make speed to save me.” But whatever you say, I want your prayer to be the very first thing you do every day this week.

That sounds simple enough, but it is as deceptively difficult as it is subtly powerful. How many of you start your day by looking at your phone? When the first thing you do every morning is to look at the headlines or scroll through social media or glance at your calendar, you are allowing the noise of this world to push God away. When we start our day with something other than prayer, we place God in subjection to the demands of this life, when, in fact, our God is the Lord of all of them. Every headline, every post, every meme, every appointment, every meeting—our God reigns over them all. 

Prayer every morning is how we learn to believe that. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “The entire day receives order and discipline when it acquires unity. This unity must be sought and found in morning prayer.” [1]  Next week, I will talk more about what we are supposed to pray—what words we should use and why our words matter—but, for now, what matters is that we pray at all and that we start our day in prayer.

Tonight, before you go to sleep, decide how you will begin your day tomorrow with prayer. You can use the Lord’s Prayer, or you can simply say, “O God, make speed to save me.” You can take home your bulletin and recite the words of Psalm 30. If the first thing you typically reach for is your phone, make sure that the first screen you will see is a prayer that you can say. Tonight, you can Google “The Lord’s Prayer” or “Psalm 23” and leave that screen open as a reminder to begin your day with prayer. However you do it, decide to start each day with prayer, and you will soon discover a connection with God that follows you all day long. That connection is where life-changing faith begins, and it is upon that connection that we will build next week.

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1. Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. Psalms: The Prayer Book of the Bible. Augsburg Fortress Press; Minneapolis: 1970, 64.

How to Read the Old Testament

 

June 22, 2025 – The 2nd Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 7C

1 Kings 19:1-15a; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

How much do you know about the Old Testament? I don’t mean, how many stories can you recall. I mean, how much do you know about the collection itself—the composite of ancient texts written and rewritten by multiple communities and traditions over the span of a thousand years that we now call the Old Testament? How much do you know about it? Has anyone ever taught you how to read it—how to make sense of the ancient Hebrew texts and relate them to your life as a twenty-first-century Christian?

I don’t presume in one sermon to attempt to tell you how to read the whole, complicated, multi-faceted collection, but I do want to spend some time today talking about the Old Testament in general and offering some specific, concrete guidelines that I think can help us encounter these sacred texts as the life-giving, faith-forming, Holy-Spirit-inspired words that God has given them to us to be. And I want to use today’s lesson from 1 Kings as a model for reading and studying other Old Testament texts. 

Let me start by noting that I didn’t pick this story about Elijah encountering God in the sound of sheer silence. In The Episcopal Church, we use a lectionary—a three-year cycle that assigns four readings to every Sunday and other major feast in the Christian year. Preachers in our church don’t get to choose the readings, but, as Lora mentioned last week, we do get to decide what verses we want to focus on. 

The truth is that it’s often easier for a preacher to relate the Gospel text to contemporary life, which means that congregations like ours aren’t invited to wrestle with a passage from the Old Testament as often. That, combined with the fact that, until the current prayer book was adopted in 1979, the lectionary largely ignored the Old Testament altogether, has led us to think of the Hebrew Bible as second-class scripture. But, considering the fact that what we call the Old Testament was for people like Jesus and Paul the only Bible they knew, it’s important for us to find a way to receive it not as an afterthought but as the very heart of what God is saying to God’s people today.

The most important thing I want you to learn about the Old Testament is that, when we read it, we need to hear three distinct but overlapping layers at work in the biblical text. The first layer is the story of the text itself. What happened? Who is involved? What twists and turns does the story take? The second layer is larger the story of God’s people. How does this particular passage fit unto the overall story of God’s relationship with Israel? What period of Jewish history does this story come from? What happened before the story started, and what will happen after it is finished? The third layer is the even larger story of salvation. What does this particular story and its place in the history of Israel tell us about God’s ongoing work of salvation? How are the ultimate themes of creation and covenant, sin and redemption, exile and return reflected in the text? And, therefore, how does the story relate to our own experience of salvation?

Now, let’s turn to today’s reading from 1 Kings and use that three-layer model to explore the passage. First, let’s talk about the story of the text—the story of Elijah fleeing the wrath of Jezebel and finding God in the silence as he stood outside a cave on Mt. Horeb. This is a story about a victorious but exhausted prophet (Elijah) running away from an angry and vindictive queen (Jezebel) who has sworn by her gods that she will have the prophet executed or else they can take her own life. 

Jezebel is the Phoenician bride of the Israelite King Ahab, the ruler of the northern kingdom of Israel, the nation that broke away from the southern kingdom of Judah during a civil war after King Solomon’s reign. Elijah has defeated and slaughtered many of Jezebel’s prophets because they worshipped the Canaanite god Baal. Jezebel is furious and issues the death sentence. Exhausted from his previous victory, Elijah flees south to Judah, beyond the reach of Jezebel and Ahab. There, in the wilderness, the prophet collapses in the shade of a broom tree and asks God to take his life. He is completely spent and ready to die. 

But, while he sleeps, an angel of the Lord appears to him in a vision and encourages him to eat and drink in preparation for a long journey. Sure enough, God has provided a griddle cake and some water to sustain the prophet for forty days and forty nights, while he makes his way to Horeb, the mountain of God. There on the holy mountain God confronts him, saying, “What are you doing here Elijah?” And the prophet responds, “My passion and zeal for you have gotten me into this mess, O Lord. All the faithful prophets are gone. Your people have forsaken the covenant. I am the only one left, and they are trying to kill me.” 

God beckons Elijah out of the cave and promises to pass by. First, there is a violent wind. Next, there is a powerful earthquake. Then, there is a blazing fire, but God is not found in any of them. Finally, there is nothing left but what the NRSV calls the “sound of sheer silence”—a decent attempt at translating an enigmatic Hebrew phrase that defies translation. Whatever it is, the Lord is found in the absence—in the silence—and in the silence itself God confronts the discouraged prophet. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” a voice from within the silence asks. And then from that silence the Lord recommissions the prophet and directs him to go—go back to the north from which you fled for I am not finished with you yet. That’s the first layer.

Stories from the Old Testament are never told in isolation. They are always a part of a bigger narrative. The second layer for us to consider is the centuries-long story of God’s people. Ahab and Jezebel weren’t the only rulers in Israel to lead God’s people astray. This episode comes amid a long series of mostly faithless kings who, little by little, erode the moral and religious foundation of Israel. We are supposed to read this episode and remember that human leaders almost always let God down. But this story also shows us that, even in an era of pervasive decline, God uses faithful people like Elijah to carry out God’s will. It also teaches us that things usually aren’t as bad as they seem. The prophet was discouraged, exhausted, and felt all alone, but, as the story continues, we discover that God has preserved a remnant of 7,000 faithful people who are ready to support Elijah and his efforts of reform.

There are other stories from the history of God’s people that resonate with this one, and the biblical authors are counting on us to make those connections. The mountain to which God sends the prophet is Mt. Horeb, also known as Mt. Sinai. It is the same place where God met Moses centuries before Elijah showed up. Perhaps that’s why it took Elijah forty days and forty nights to get there—the same amount of time that Moses spent fasting on that mountain. You may remember that, in the time of Moses, God often confronted God’s people in violent winds, powerful earthquakes, and blazing fires. Elijah may have been expecting God to reveal Godself in one of those familiar and formidable expressions, but God was not found in any of them, and that is significant for us. Instead, God confronts Elijah in a haunting silence, and, when the prophet encounters the divine presence within that silence, he knows that God is sending him back to confront his enemies, not with earthly might, but with that same divine power. That is the second layer.

Haven’t we learned over the millennia that God’s power abides with us not in earthquake and fire, not in sword and spear, but in the persistent, unwavering, and often surprising holiness that unfolds within us and those around us? That brings us to the final layer of the story—the larger story of salvation—the great arc of redemption history that bends all things and all time toward God’s perfect fulfillment. This is where we connect the story of Elijah standing up to the evil powers of the ninth century BC to the countless examples of courage and faithfulness that stretch from the pages of scripture all the way down to our own day.

The story of Elijah reminds us that earthly power always stands contrary to God’s power and that the prophets who confront those who hold it are universally denounced and threatened by those who refuse to yield it back to God. It shows us that God can use our moments of weakness, vulnerability, and exhaustion to bring about real change. It teaches us yet again that God shows up in ways we don’t expect and that, even within the story of God’s people, our understanding of God’s power changes throughout the generations. And the story of Elijah reminds us that, even when we are ready to give up, God isn’t finished with us yet because God still has difficult but important work for us to do. That’s the third layer.

We must remember that the stories of the Old Testament are our stories, just as they were the stories of Jesus and Paul. They aren’t always easy to read. They rarely offer simple or straightforward moral lessons. And the characters involved are usually far from perfect role models. But these stories are no less holy than Luke’s account of the miraculous deliverance of the Gerasene demoniac or Paul’s vision of the unity of all people in Galatians. When we remember that every story of the Old Testament has meaning beyond the simple reading of the text—that there are multiple layers of significance to each encounter—we begin to hear them as sacred scripture that was written for our learning. 

God is the hero of every story in the Bible—from Genesis to Revelation, from beginning to end. It’s up to us to find God in all of them, or else we’ll never be able to find ourselves in the story of salvation that God tells.

The Long Season of Salvation

 

June 8, 2025 – The Day of Pentecost: Whitsunday

Acts 2:1-21; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-27

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon is available here. Video can be seen here.

As a longtime fan of the Chicago Cubs, my life changed considerably in 2016. When they broke the Curse of the Billy Goat to win their first World Series in 108 years, my favorite team went from Loveable Losers to World Champions. Since they were no longer available as a sermon illustration for enduring hardship and repeated disappointment, I’ve had to find new ways to describe what it means for God’s people to wait for salvation. And I’m not the only one who had to come up with a new marketing plan. 

Back in 2001, I worked on the ground crew at Wrigley Field. It was a magical summer. One of the things that made it magical was how well the Cubs were doing that season. Week after week, the team remained at or near the top of the division. The veteran ground crew members, who had experienced years of disappointment, were giddy with child-like excitement. They kept telling me that this year felt different. And, sure enough, as the season wore on and the trade deadline approached, instead of trading away star players in exchange for prospects the way they usually did, the Cubs made a move that solidified their intent to compete that year. They acquired Fred McGriff, a veteran, all-star first baseman, whose bat might help them make a post-season run.

Baseball seasons are exceptionally long. Each team plays 162 games over six months, so, unlike football teams, whose hopes for a championship can be dashed in a single game, baseball teams deal in aggregates. The rhythm of the season becomes more important than individual games or weeks. The early part of the season lasts two months, during which teams give an indication of whether preseason expectations might be met. In the middle of the season, teams show whether they are worthy of giving up money and prospects to add stars at the deadline or whether they should give up their stars and save their hope for another year. And only in the final two months do fans discover whether those moves were right.

Normally, August wasn’t a great month for the Cubs. Once the July 31 trade deadline had passed, the team usually settled into a torpor during the dog days of summer. It was a familiar rhythm of hope giving way to disappointment, which was only broken by the occasional good season. I remember vendors selling t-shirts that had a list of “Top Ten Things Not Heard at Wrigley,” and somewhere near the top of the list was “August is our month.” For 108 years, those shirts made sense. Even in an exceptional year, when the Cubs made a run, fans knew that, as the end of the season approached, it was better to look ahead to Spring Training than to set your hopes on October—until, of course, all of that changed. Now, with a recent taste of ultimate success, it’s a lot harder for Cubs fans to remember that baseball seasons take a long time and that patience is even more important than a desire to win every game.

Many, many season years ago, the disciples were all together in one place, and the Holy Spirit came and filled the house where they were with a sound like the rush of a violent wind. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a blazing tongue rested on each one of them, giving to each disciple the ability to speak in other languages. So chaotic was the sight and sound, that faithful Jews from all over the known world, who were in Jerusalem for the Feast of Weeks, came and marveled. “What does this mean?” some of them asked. “They are drunk on new wine!” others sneered.

Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Peter stood up and spoke: “Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: ‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.’”

These are the last days, Peter tells us. This is the final stretch of the season. With the death and resurrection of Jesus, God is winding up the story of salvation, and the Holy Spirit is God’s gift to the church for these last days. In the Holy Spirit, God has given us what we need to be faithful and fruitful until the very end, but what that means—what faithfulness and fruitfulness look like—depends very much on what we think the “last days” are. After all, it’s been 2000 years of last days, and it is hard to live with a sense of urgency for that long. But recovering a sense of where we are in the long story of salvation helps us remain faithful to God and faithful to the Spirit which God has given us.

When you hear a preacher start to talk about the “last days,” how does that make you feel? Most of us probably associate sermons about the end of the world with images like fire and brimstone, heaven and hell, wrath and judgment. That’s because most of the preachers who talk about the last days talk about them as if the signs described by the prophet Joel—blood, fire, and smoky mist—are close enough to scare us out of complacency. Because these are the last days, such preachers proclaim, the terrifying and decisive power of God demands radical and urgent action.

But you know what happens when human beings try to restrict and constrain God’s timeline until it fits neatly within their own understanding of chronology? It changes the way we think of God. It changes how we think of salvation. And it changes how we think of the Holy Spirit, tragically turning the gracious gift that God has given to unite us into a weapon that divides us.

Think about the Day of Pentecost. The very first gift that God gave the disciples after Jesus ascended into heaven was the ability to speak the good news of God’s salvation to all the nations of the earth. “How is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?” the crowd of Jewish pilgrims asked. These members of the Jewish diaspora, rather than needing to translate the story of salvation from the Hebrew language used in the scriptures and in the temple into the language of their birth, encountered the story of God’s people as if it were written specifically for them. The gift of the Holy Spirit, therefore, was one of invitation—invitation to relationship and intimacy.  

But intimacy takes time. And human beings aren’t patient. When we get a taste of something we want, we don’t like to wait, and, if we can use the urgency and immediacy of salvation to fuel our impatience, all the better. Instead of relying on the Holy Spirit for the long, slow work of building relationships across cultures, our ancestors in the church translated the gospel into other languages in order to conquer the people who speak them and enslave them. “These are the last days,” the clergy who held shares in slave trading companies might have said, confusing their bottom line with God’s. “If we do not bring the gospel to the ends of the earth now, all hope for the African people will be lost.”

The same desire for control and domination continues to fuel the efforts of those who speak about the last days as if damnation will crash upon us at any moment. The Holy Spirit empowers us for urgent and compelling action, but there is a big difference between speaking about the last days with urgency and speaking about them as a threat. 

The last days foretold by the prophet Joel are the days that come after suffering and hardship, not before them. Joel taught that God’s people will know that their time of punishment is over when God pours out the Holy Spirit upon all people—when everyone—male and female, young and old, slave and free—is caught up in God’s wonderful work of salvation. These are indeed the last days, but that doesn’t mean that we should be afraid that the end will come at any minute. Instead, we should rejoice because it means that God’s salvation for all people is at hand.

These last days are defined not chronologically but theologically—not temporally but teleologically. Because God has raised Jesus from the dead, we live in an era of salvation history that is defined by radical inclusion not cultural assimilation. In Christ, all people have been written into the story of salvation, and the work of the Holy Spirit is to ensure that everyone on the earth knows that they belong to God. And that’s good news!

It's hard to remember that the arrival of these last days is good news when it feels like the whole season might come to a tragic end any second. But, when we remember that the last days will last until God’s work is finished—until God’s perfect time has come—we can approach them with real hope—the kind of hope that is empowered by the Holy Spirit. God has called us to share the good news of the gospel with the whole world, and God has empowered us to do that through the long and slow work of building intimate relationships that transcend cultures. That work requires patience and vulnerability, not speed and power. In the end, that’s how God’s salvation comes to us all.

Dissonance and Resolution

 

June 1, 2025 – Easter 7C

Acts 16:16-34; Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21; John 17:20-26

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

Over and over, as she walked behind Paul and Silas through the streets of Philippi, a slave girl cried out, “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.” Day after day, this girl, whose name we are never told, followed the apostles everywhere they went, relentlessly yelling to any who would listen who it was that had come into their city. You might think that the apostles would be glad to get this sort of publicity, but her cries had the opposite effect. Eventually, Paul couldn’t take it anymore. He was exhausted, annoyed, labored through and through by her incessant cries, so he turned and said to the ungodly spirit within her, “I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her!” And it came out that very hour.

Who are the people that annoy you like that? Whose incessant cries drive you to the point of emotional exhaustion—to the point where the only thing you can do is turn around and yell at them to stop? 

Lots of people have the ability to bother us, but not everyone can get under our skin like that. I don’t like telemarketers, speed traps, or people who leave their shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot at the grocery store, but, after a moment of frustration, I am usually able to leave them behind. The people who really bother me are the ones who know just what buttons to push—the buttons that force me to confront not only what I do not like about the world but also what I do not like about myself. It is those individuals who instinctively identify that dissonance between the person I am supposed to be and the one who I really am and then hammer upon my inability to reconcile the two that awaken within me true rage.

The spirit of divination within that slave girl could see who Paul and Silas really were, and it knew even better than they did what was amiss within them. We cannot know exactly what brought this girl into the presence of the two apostles, but we can imagine that there was something about them—something about their identity as slaves of the Most High God—that drew this slave girl toward them. Maybe she knew that the God they served had the power to set her free. Or maybe she yearned for the companionship of some co-slaves. Whatever it was, as soon as she came near them, the spirit within her recognized a vulnerability within these two men. It could see the dissonance between the freedom that Paul and Silas proclaimed and the bondage that this girl endured. So the spirit began to shout until Paul couldn’t stand it anymore.

The Bible wants us to recognize and respond to the tension between our faithfulness and the world’s brokenness. The text makes a point of mentioning that it was on their way to the place of prayer that this slave girl found Paul and Silas. As Willie James Jennings writes, “As the disciples journeyed toward prayer, they gained a co-traveler who haunted their prayer walk. Such haunting is necessary and of the Spirit, as the tormented cries of the enslaved must always encumber the pious actions of the faithful.”  Even if the spirit within her was not of God, the Holy Spirit had the power to use its haunting voice to bring about God’s will. 

But Paul was not a completely willing participant, was he? The author of the Acts of the Apostles makes no attempt to redeem Paul’s impetuous decision to exorcise the demon spirit from the slave girl. There is no language about freedom or salvation here—only the language of annoyance. And that’s the point. When we are confronted by the dissonant collision between what we know to be right and our own failure to achieve it, our embarrassment masked as annoyance must grow into true pain and hardship before we can accept what God is trying to do within us.

What do you think Paul expected to happen when he cast that spirit out of the slave girl? I don’t get the impression that Paul thought a lot about it before he acted, but it wouldn’t take a fortune teller to know that, by eliminating her owners’ income stream, Paul was stepping into a world of trouble. To them, this nameless girl was nothing but property—an investment opportunity—and, now that the money had dried up, those owners wanted someone to pay. They dragged Paul and Silas into the marketplace—the center of commerce—and denounced them as Jews whose unfamiliar ways were threatening the peace and security promised by the empire. The sympathetic crowd was inflamed by their rhetoric, and they seized Paul and Silas, beating them and throwing them into prison.

It was in that moment that Paul finally knew that he had done something right. After being stripped naked, beaten with rods, thrown in jail, and bound in stocks, Paul and Silas began to sing. The hymns of praise they sang to God must have surprised the jailer. Surely he would have expected songs of lament and prayers of desperation, but these followers of Jesus were celebrating because they were wearing the marks of their savior. Regardless of his motives, Paul had managed to put upon himself the suffering of Jesus, which to him was a sign not of God’s abandonment but of his own faithfulness to the one whose reign stood in opposition to those who had imprisoned him. “If you can’t bear the cross,” the old gospel hymn declares, “then you can’t wear the crown.”

At midnight, while they were still singing, the ground began to tremble. An earthquake shook the prison to its foundations. The walls began to crack. The prisoners’ chains fell off. The cell doors swung open. All the prisoners had been set free—not just Paul and Silas but all who had been incarcerated. Fearing what would happen to him now that the criminals were let loose, the jailer drew his sword to kill himself, but Paul intervened. “Do not harm yourself,” he cried out in a loud voice, “for we are all here.” When God looses the chains and opens the doors and sets the prisoners free, the result is life, not death, and we must remember that.

Freedom in Christ means freedom for all. You cannot partake in the saving love of Jesus Christ and withhold that saving love from someone else without experiencing an unbearable dissonance. When you know that you are the underserved recipient of God’s unconditional love and are confronted by those to whom you would deny that same love, the experience is frustrating, emotionally exhausting, and spiritually draining. Often, when someone points out the inconsistency of our faith, our reaction is to use anger and self-righteousness to deflect our embarrassment and shame. Sometimes it just feels easier to retreat behind a wall of bluster and annoyance than to face the truth that, if God loves sinners like you and me, then God loves everyone—even and especially the people who get under our skin. 

Who are the people that annoy you to the point of emotional exhaustion, and what is it about them that God is inviting you to love the way that God loves them? In the end, it’s not really the people themselves who bother us. It’s the fact that they represent something about ourselves that we don’t like—something that we wish God would make disappear. But the only way that part of us will ever disappear is if we allow God to love it too—if we are willing to believe that even the least lovable part of ourselves is also loved by God—even that part of us which fails to love others the way that we have been loved.

Confronting that dissonance within us is costly. It usually leads to suffering and hardship. But Jesus has shown us that the way of the cross is the way that leads to everlasting life. “For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.”

_______________________

1. Jennings, Willie James. Acts: A Theological Commentary on the Bible. Westminster John Knox Press; Louisville: 2017, 159.

Becoming A Bridge

 

May 18, 2025 – Easter 5C

Acts 11:1-18; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon will be available here. Video can be seen here.

Back when Morgan County, Alabama, was still a dry county, people would drive just over the border into Madison County, where a liquor store had been opened by a savvy entrepreneur. Though I never witnessed it myself, I am told that Shine Peebles, a life-long Episcopalian and practical joker, would walk into the store and declare loudly enough for all the customers to hear, “Brother Billy,” invoking the name of a prominent nearby Baptist minister, “what are you doing in here?” Apparently it was enough to get most of the customers to duck out of the store, clearing the way for Shine to go to the front of the line.

The presumption, of course, is that Brother Billy would only have come to the liquor store to catch some of the members of his church red-handed. If he wanted to buy alcohol for himself, he would need to drive several counties over to avoid bumping into someone he knew. In more conservative Christian traditions, that’s all takes to get a minister fired from his position—the scandal of getting caught buying a bottle of booze. We might laugh with our superior sense of tolerance, but we have our own lines that we are unwilling for our religious leaders to cross. What if your bishop were caught coming out of a strip club? What if there was a photograph on social media of your rector at a MAGA rally?

There are people we don’t want to see our clergy hanging out with, and there are places we don’t want to see them go. Where do you draw those lines? In your mind, who are the people and where are the places that feel antithetical to who God is and what God wants in the world? What’s the group of people that, if you were to see me spending time and breaking bread with them, you would want to pick up the phone and call the bishop because you knew I couldn’t be an effective priest anymore?

In today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles, Peter is in that kind of trouble. Word has gotten back to the leaders in Jerusalem that Peter has been eating alongside Gentiles, and they are not happy about it. It’s hard for us to appreciate how controversial it was that Peter, a devout Jew and a leader among Jesus’ followers, would share a meal with the uncircumcised. Back then, Jews and Gentiles led wholly separate lives, not only because of the need for ritual purity but also because of years of oppression at the hands of their Gentile neighbors. Whether a follower of Jesus or not, Jewish people agreed that the one thing that most stood in the way of God’s vision for God’s people was the tyranny of their Gentile occupiers. 

To enter a house and share a meal with non-Jews, as Peter was reported to have done, was presumed to be a violation of the Mosaic law and a betrayal of one’s identity. Zealots like Saul of Tarsus, who later became known as Paul the Apostle, were convinced that Jews who failed to keep the religious standards of their people were the reason that God had not yet come to dwell among God’s people. Breaking bread with the uncircumcised, in other words, was itself the reason that God’s promised salvation was not yet manifest on the earth. The Christian leaders in Jerusalem may not have been zealots like Saul, but they knew that no good could come of Peter’s fraternization with the Gentiles, and they hauled him in front of them to explain himself.

What I find most remarkable about Peter’s defense is how flimsy it is. All he did was explain to them what happened, step by step: “I was in the city of Joppa praying, and in a trance I saw a vision.” Peter recalls for the leaders in Jerusalem everything that happened, but not once does he cite a verse from the Torah or the Prophets to justify his actions. Not once does he explain the theology behind God’s decision to include the Gentiles. His only defense is the experience itself, and experience is always the weakest warrant for any theological argument.

“There was something like a large sheet coming down from heaven, being lowered by its four corners,” he told them. “As I looked closely, I saw four-footed animals, beasts, reptiles, and birds of the air. I also heard a voice saying to me, ‘Get up, Peter, kill and eat.’ But I replied, ‘By no means, Lord; for nothing profane has ever entered my mouth.’” Three times, Peter saw this same vision, and, each time, as he protested, the voice proclaimed, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.” And, as soon as the vision was gone, there was a knock at the door. 

Servants of Cornelius the Centurion, a Roman officer who had experienced his own vision, had come to take Peter to meet their master. Led by the Holy Spirit, Peter went with them and entered the centurion’s house, where he told them about Jesus. As he was speaking to them, the Holy Spirit fell upon the Gentiles who were gathered there, and Peter, remembering what Jesus had taught them about being baptized with the Holy Spirit, declared, “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?” After they were baptized, Peter remained with them for several days.

Looking back from the perspective of an almost completely Gentile church, it’s easy for us to see that God was at work bringing even non-Jews into the community of faith. But it’s remarkable how personal, individual, and therefore unconvincing Peter’s argument is. Imagine a reporter sticking a microphone into the face of an embarrassed minister as he came out of a brothel and hearing the minister say, “I had a dream last night that God wanted me to bring the good news of Jesus Christ to the people who work here, too.” Wouldn’t we expect a more convincing story than that before we agreed to fund that pastor’s new ministry among sex workers?

But the leaders in Jerusalem didn’t need one. Peter simply told them what had happened, without engaging in any argument or attempt at self-justification, and that was enough to win the hearts and minds of the church. By offering himself and nothing more, Peter enabled those in Jerusalem  to see what God was doing and to put their hostility away. 

When we become as vulnerable as Jesus and allow the Holy Spirit to speak for us, God uses our vulnerability as a bridge that spans the hostility that divides us from others. Notice the reaction of the leaders in Jerusalem. Our translation tells us that “they were silenced,” but the word that is translated for us as “silenced” is a word that literally means “came to peace.” When they heard Peter’s story and witnessed his vulnerability, the people who were interrogating Peter came to peace. As other translations put it, they “stopped arguing” (CEV), or they “calmed down” (CEB). 

The only way to dissolve the hostility that exists between us and the people whom we believe are standing in the way of God’s vision for the world is with the vulnerability and humility of Jesus. Peter didn’t convince his opponents of anything. He didn’t win the argument or wear them down. He adopted the posture of the cross, trusting that what Jesus had already accomplished would be enough. And the result was peace—the end of quarreling. That’s how the world becomes the place that God dreams it to be. Not when we win the theological battles but when we become like Jesus and trust that his self-sacrificial love is enough to unite us all.

That’s what Jesus did on the cross. His body became a bridge that spans the hostility that divides us from God and that divides us from one another. Jesus’ outstretched arms are offered not only in a gesture of embracing love but also as a means of connection between aggrieved parties. The principal accomplishment of the cross of Christ is the reunification of all people to God and to each other. That’s what forgiveness means. Peter knew that. He had experienced it for himself. So, when God showed up in a most unexpected way, he was ready to receive it, and he was ready to offer his own body as the bridge by which the barrier between Jew and Gentile could be abolished.

Because of Jesus Christ, you have been made one with God and with one another—and not just with the people you like or the people you manage to tolerate but even the people you cannot stand at all—the ones whom you think are the very embodiment of everything that stands in the way of God’s vision for the world. Jesus has made you one with them. Do you know how all the hostility and hatred between us and them goes away? When we become like Jesus—vulnerable and humble and willing to lose so that God’s love might win.

Finding True Certainty

 

April 20, 2025 – Easter Day

Acts 10:34-43; 1 Corinthians 15:19-26; John 20:1-18

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon will be available here. Video can be seen here.

Anyone have a picnic planned for this afternoon? Anyone buy a new outfit you were hoping to show off? Anyone hide Easter eggs all over your yard so your children or grandchildren could find them in their raincoats and galoshes? This isn’t the beautiful, sunny, picturesque celebration we had in mind, but Christ is still risen all the same. Alleluia!

Sometimes our plans don’t work out, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. Anyone here married to a planner? I’m talking about the kind of planner who has backup plans to backup plans—the sort who makes you leave for the airport four hours before your flight just in case a herd of elk decide to block the interstate. Anyone live with one of those? 

If so, these last few months haven’t been easy, have they? All of us are having to plan for contingencies we never dreamt were possible. And bad weather is only the start. How do you plan for retirement if you don’t know whether there will even be a stock market in five years? And what a luxury it is to even contemplate retirement! What’s it like to plan a wedding when you aren’t completely sure that your marriage will be legal by the time the date rolls around? What it’s like to plan to have children when you aren’t sure you would be able to get the life-saving treatment you need should that unlikely possibility come to pass? What’s it like to go shopping for a family dinner when you can’t be sure that your undocumented spouse will even come home from work tonight? In a world of deep uncertainty, we need the confidence of Easter.

Two summers ago, I decided it would be a good idea for our family to have an emergency preparedness kit. I bought a hand-cranked weather radio and phone charger. I bought some extra flashlights, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. I bought some peanut butter and canned chicken and other shelf-stable foods. I bought a can opener. I bought a little fishing tackle box that I could put some medications in. I bought some large jugs of water. And I put it all in a waterproof plastic bin, which I slid into the back of my closet. I was so proud of myself. We were ready.

A few months ago, I decided I needed to update its contents and switch out the shelf-stable items and medication for newer supplies. When I opened the bin, however, I discovered that everything inside was submerged in a pool of water. The seams on the water jugs had ruptured, and everything that was supposed to keep our family safe in the unlikely event of an emergency was immersed in the gross, rusty waters of my own miniature flood. The irony is not lost on me that my efforts to prepare for a disaster became their own disaster.

Having an emergency preparedness kit is a good idea, but pretending that it is an infallible means of protection only leads to disappointment. Striking the right balance between planning for the future and setting yourself up for frustration depends upon your ability to accept that, while you can anticipate some of what the future holds, there is no amount of planning that can make you immune from what life will bring. Ironically, the more you try to hold on to the myth of unassailable peace and security the more quickly those dreams slip through your fingers. Letting go of that need for certainty is the only way we can find certainty. That may sound like bad news, but I assure you that it isn’t. It’s how the true hope of Easter becomes manifest in us.

After Peter and the other disciple had gone into the tomb, seen the linen wrappings lying where the body of Jesus had been, and gone back to their homes, Mary Magdalene stood outside and wept. “Woman, why are you weeping?” the angels in white asked her. “They have taken away my Lord,” she said, “and I do not know where they have laid him.” Into that moment of paralyzing grief, Jesus revealed himself to her. “Mary,” he said tenderly. “Rabbouni,” she replied, overcome with joy. Her first instinct was to wrap her arms around Jesus and never let him go, but, before she could even touch him, Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ And Mary went with joy to tell them.

The instinct to seek the warm and loving embrace of our savior is a good and holy one, but all too easily our desire to be close to Jesus gets wrapped up in a different sort of hope—one that comes not from God but from the idol of security that put in God’s place. In uncertain times, we are desperate for certainty, and, often without even realizing it, we cling to Christ’s victory over sin and death as if it were a shield for the faithful in this life. When that sort of claim is made by others, it’s easy for us to recognize it as hollow. The false lure of the prosperity gospel or Christian nationalism is easy for us to spot. But, when it’s our retirement account, our pathology report, or our research grant that we’re worried about, it’s a lot harder to avoid the theological trap of thinking that, if God really were up there and if he really did raise Jesus from the dead, why doesn’t he step in and help me now?

The miracle of Easter isn’t about providing certainty in this life. It’s about the certainty Christ gives us for the life to come. As Saint Paul wrote in his First Letter to the Corinthians, “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.” If the victory of Jesus is only supposed to make this life—life in this broken and fallen world—easier, then we are the butt of a terrible two-thousand-year-old joke.

Jesus didn’t die on the cross and be raised on the third day to make this life easy. He died to carry us safely from this life into the next, and that unassailable truth has the power to shield us, not from hardship and suffering, but from the damning conclusion that the hardship and suffering we endure in this life will have the final word. They won’t! They can’t! Because Christ has defeated them once and for all. But that’s a victory we cling to not with our hands but only with our hearts.

“Do not hold on to me,” Jesus says to Mary Magdalene, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” The Jesus we hold on to is the one who has already gone into heaven to prepare a place for us. That part of us which is already linked to him—already united to the risen and ascended Jesus—clings to him even now in heaven. Even though, for now, the promise of salvation is only partially realized, its certainty is enough to sustain us when we encounter suffering in this life. How we face the challenges and uncertainties ahead of us is completely transformed by our faith in the one who was raised from the dead. We must not allow our hope in the resurrection to be diminished by pretending that it is supposed to make this life easy. But we can allow our confidence in what lies ahead to bring hope and light and life even to the hardest parts of our lives.

Sometimes the hardest part of being a Christian is remembering that the stronger our faith becomes the harder our lives on the earth become, too. That’s because, when that part of you that already dwells securely in the heart of the risen Jesus grows, your willingness to live not for this life but for the life to come grows as well. Those of us who belong to one who was raised from the dead and who now lives and reigns from heaven above are given courage and strength to let go of our need for security and certainty in this life. We cling, instead, to the promise of the new life that awaits us. We hold on to the one who is risen and who has ascended into heaven, Jesus Christ, to whom and with whom we belong for ever and ever. Amen.

Emptiness, Remembrance, Faith, Salvation

 

April 19, 2025 – The Easter Vigil, Year C

Romans 6:3-11; Luke 24:1-12

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

Tonight is the night when death becomes life, when darkness gives way to new light, when suffering is transformed into glory. But where is Jesus? Every gospel writer recalls for us the moment when the empty tomb was discovered, and all of them have their own particular way of telling this sacred story. Luke’s version, which we hear tonight, includes many of the same details as the other three—the early-morning setting, the stone having already been rolled away, the heavenly figures waiting nearby, and the women—always the women—who were the first to find it—but Luke is the only one who gives us a version that is this elaborate without including Jesus. 

Where is Jesus? “He is not here,” the men in dazzling clothes said to the women, “but has risen.” Why do you look for the living among the dead? The question implies a lack of understanding on the part of the women—as if they were confused about a detail that should be obvious to them. If only Jesus were here to explain it to them. If only Jesus were here to show us how to believe.

But Jesus doesn’t show up, at least not yet. Instead, the angelic figures say to the women, “Remember.” “Remember, they said, “how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” These women stood at the place where death had been defeated once and for all—the launching pad from which a categorically new moment in the story of salvation was springing forth—yet the truth of what God had done could only be found by going back—back into their memories, where they could inhabit that transformation for themselves. Only when we remember—only when we return to dwell in that place where our own emptiness is met by the fullness of God’s love—can the truth of the resurrection take hold in our lives.

Of course that truth was declared first to the women. Because of their status in that society, which is to say because they occupied a position of non-privilege, they were able to see the empty tomb and find within its absence the power of the resurrection. Although all four gospel writers remember that the women were the first to discover it, Luke is the only one who allows that discovery to be for them and them alone. In the other three, the women were told to go and share that good news with the male disciples. But not in Luke. Instead, Luke knows what will happen when the women go and tell the eleven all that had happened: their words were dismissed as an idle tale.

The men would not receive their testimony. The men did not believe them. The men did not even bother to go and see it for themselves, except for Peter. Something within Peter was different. Leaving the ten behind, he went to look into the tomb for himself, and, although he did not remember what the women disciples had remembered, he was amazed at what he saw, and amazement is a first step toward faith.

Eight times in Luke’s gospel account someone is said to remember something. Eight different times remembrance plays a role in the unfolding story of salvation. And, in all eight, that act of remembering takes place within a context of loss, weakness, vulnerability, or rejection: Mary’s Magnificat, Zechariah’s Benedictus, Abraham’s convicting words to the rich man in Jesus’ parable, Jesus’ instructions to his disciples about not looking back in their moment of trial, the institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper, the request of the penitent thief who hanged on the cross beside Jesus, Peter’s shame when he heard the cock crow, and the women’s moment of realization at the empty tomb. Every time, the act of remembering comes out of a moment of emptiness, and every time that emptiness leads to salvation. 

Peter was the only one of the eleven to go and look in the tomb because he was the only one who remembered his own emptiness—the haunting shame of having denied Jesus. The realization of faith may not have come to him yet, but his amazement was a starting point.

Tonight is the night when death becomes life, when darkness gives way to a new dawn, when suffering is transformed into glory. And where is Jesus? He is found right in the center of that transformation—in the very middle of the hollowed out emptiness that is filled with the promise of new life. Suffering must always precede glory. Struggle always comes before salvation. There is no other way. And we must remember that. And, when we do, we find Jesus.

It is hard for those of us who have it easy to see within the empty tomb something other than an absence. It is hard for those of us who live the good life to hear the women’s report as something other than an idle tale. But the message of the men in dazzling clothes is the same for us as it was for them: we must remember.

Remembering is more than a simple recollection. It is the reconstitution of a moment and the repositioning of ourselves within it, and that requires emptiness. When Jesus taught his disciples that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again, none of them understood what he said. It was not possible for any of them to see how God’s anointed one, the savior of the world, could die a shameful death. And so, when Jesus did die that shameful death, none of them could put the pieces of their shattered expectations back together again until the women were asked to remember. Their example of remembering is God’s gift to us.

Salvation comes from faith, and faith comes from remembering, and remembering comes from being empty, and being empty is where we find Jesus. The women at the tomb teach us that we must be emptied of our self-sufficiency in order to make room for the risen Lord. That is harder for some of us than it is for others. It feels scary to be asked to give up the security we have established for ourselves. More often, it is taken from us without our choosing. But the good news of Easter is that Jesus is always found in the hollowed-out space that has been made within us. It is within that space that remembrance becomes possible, and it is from remembrance that faith springs forth, and that faith is our salvation—our own place within God’s story of new life.