Under The Shadow Of Your Wings

 

March 16, 2025 – The 2nd Sunday in Lent, Year C

Genesis 15:1-12,17-18; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

Madder than a wet hen—have you ever used that phrase? Have you ever met someone who fits that bill? I’m not sure that Appalachian farmers actually dunked their broody hens in cold water to stun them long enough to collect their eggs, but I am sure that anyone who treats a hen like that had better scamper out of the chicken coop before that hen recovers.

I’ve been chased by chickens before. I’ve been pecked and squawked at. I’ve seen mama hens care for their chicks with the skillful balance of watchful protection and fatigued indifference that we’d expect from overworked human mothers. I’ve seen videos of chickens who fight off crows and snakes that threaten their chicks and who peck relentlessly at farmers who waited too long to collect their eggs, which resulted in a broody hen.

It's a strange way to put it, but that’s how Jesus loves us—like a mama hen who will peck and squawk and flap and claw at anyone who tries to take away her babies. In today’s gospel reading, we join Jesus on his long, deliberate journey to Jerusalem, and we hear him speak of his desire to protect the residents of that holy city, saying, “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” Jesus yearns to take care of them, he tells us, but they are not willing. The same is true of us. It is a battle of wills—Jesus’ and ours. He wants to shield us under the shadow of his wings, but we have something else in mind. 

“Get away from here,” the Pharisees warn Jesus, “for Herod wants to kill you!” Herod Antipas was the tetrarch or Roman-installed leader of Galilee. He was the one who, a few years earlier, had John the Baptist executed. Now, it was being reported that Herod was coming after Jesus. The Pharisees may have been looking for an excuse to get Jesus to move along more quickly, or they may have been sympathetic to someone who had provoked the ire of a leader whom none of them respected. Either way, those religious leaders encourage Jesus to run along before trouble finds him. 

But Jesus isn’t worried about trouble. In fact, he’s looking for it. He tells the Pharisees to go and say to Herod the fox that he’s not going anywhere until his work is finished. I’ll be right here, he says, casting out demons and performing cures, for the next three days. And after that, I’m going to Jerusalem because that’s the place where prophets meet their untimely death.

The Pharisees tell Jesus to run away because Herod is threatening to kill him, but Jesus responds by telling them that he isn’t going to run away from danger but right into it. That may sound to us like Jesus is flexing his muscles or showing some machismo, but he isn’t going to Jerusalem as a warrior or a superhero but as a mother hen—a broody and cantankerous chicken who wants to shelter us under something as wonderful yet vulnerable as his feather-covered wings.

Jesus didn’t have to describe himself as a mother hen. He could have likened his protection to that of a mama bear or a lioness, whose fierce love threatens to kill anyone who dares to come between her and her cubs. But, in this gospel moment, Jesus calls himself a mother hen, and he calls Herod a fox, and we know what foxes do to chickens and their chicks. Although ultimately it will be Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, who will pronounce the death sentence on Jesus, Herod will sign off on it, too.

When it comes to keeping the people I love safe from harm, I don’t want a chicken. I want a mama bear or a mama lion to protect them, but what we need is a mother hen. That’s because it isn’t the earthly threats we should worry about but those forces that stand in the way of love, and Jesus shows us that those forces aren’t defeated by violence or strength but by vulnerability and compassion. 

Jesus doesn’t promise to keep us safe from the dangers of this world. In fact, he promises us the exact opposite. He tells his followers that they will be handed over to the authorities, persecuted, tortured, betrayed, hated, and killed. There is nothing about belonging to Jesus that will make us immune to suffering in this life. The hope that Jesus gives us is not manifest in a triumph over our enemies. No, our hope is far more significant than that. Jesus promises to love us and shield us from anything and everything that could ever separate us from God and God’s love. That is our hope, and it comes in the form of a mother hen who is willing to die for her chicks. 

It's not easy to make that our hope. It’s not easy to accept a God whose power and love come vulnerably and mercifully. It’s not easy to put our trust in a savior whose love and protection might be as fierce as a broody chicken yet in the end they are just as vulnerable as a hen to a fox. But that’s the hope of our faith—the greatest hope God has given us. 

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” Jesus cries, “the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” In ancient Israel, those who claimed to speak for the Lord in ways that were perceived to be antithetical to the Jewish faith were stoned to death as blasphemers. They may have gone to the holy city of Jerusalem to speak God’s truth to those in power, but their words were condemned as blasphemy, and their voices were silenced by stones. How often have we thrown stones at those prophets who dare to suggest that our God is to be found among the weak and the vulnerable instead of the rich and the powerful? 

It costs us something to stand with Jesus—to seek protection under his wings. It costs us strength and security in this life, which we must give up in exchange for what awaits us in the life to come. If we choose to belong to Jesus, we must let go of our desire to be immune to the hardships of this life. We must accept the protection he promises us in place of the protection we wish he would provide. 

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” Jesus tells us that we won’t be able to see him until we say those words about him. Those words signify our willingness to identify Jesus as the one whom God has sent—the one who comes to do God’s work. 

On Palm Sunday, we will join the crowd in saying those words as Jesus rides into the holy city because we expect him to ascend to the throne of King David. But, by Good Friday, our affection for the one who rode into Jerusalem will be lost. Our shouts of “Hosanna!” will become cries of “Crucify him!” because, instead of defeating our enemies, Jesus speaks out against us and our unholy desire for security and power.

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” We also say those words every time we share Communion with one another, and they carry a different connotation when we say them in this sacred meal. In Holy Communion, we acknowledge the love that God has for us in the outstretched arms of Jesus. We recognize the cost that God’s selfless love incurs when it is brought to the world. We admit that God’s love is not the kind of love that keeps us safe in this life but the kind that brings us safely into the life to come. 

Every time we gather at this table, we declare that Jesus is the blessed one—the holy one who comes to us in the name of God. In this feast of bread and wine become Christ’s body and blood, we partake in the sacrifice of the one who died for us and who protects us through his death. Here we see that our savior loves us like a mother hen, and we confess that that is the love we need most of all.

Praying God's Kingdom Come

 

Tuesday in the First Week of Lent – March 5, 2025

Matthew 6:7-15

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

This sermon was offered as part of the 2025 Soup & Sermon Series shared by Central United Methodist Church, First Christian Church, and St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Good afternoon! My name is Evan Garner, and I have the privilege of serving as the Rector or senior minister at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church across the street. I am delighted that this Lenten Soup & Sermon series is continuing this year. It was an anchor for my own Lenten practice last year, and I look forward to being fed by it again this year. I’m grateful to be a partner in ministry with Jennie, Chase, Virginia, Ryan, Cheryl, Sara, and all those who help make it possible for us to be more than isolated and separate congregations. God is doing wonderful and amazing things in and through each of our churches, and, when we get to share them with each other, the kingdom of God becomes a little clearer in Fayetteville, Arkansas, and for that I am most thankful.

Today, I want to ask you to think about your prayer life. When do you pray? How do you pray? For what do you pray? Is prayer, for you, a daily habit? An occasional pursuit? Is it something you say before every meal? Is it something you only do on Sunday mornings? Whenever you pray, do you follow a set pattern—like the Rosary or the Daily Office or something prescribed in another devotional guide—or are your prayers more freestyle? Or maybe you prefer to sit in silence with the Divine as your gentle companion. 

What do you pray for? Do you ask God to help you in difficult situations? Do you pray for friends and family who are having a hard time? Do you stop to give thanks for those little flashes of grace and divine favor that shine in your life? Or is prayer for you primarily an opportunity to be in the presence of God as if God were a lifelong friend—the sort of companion with whom you could spend the whole day as effortlessly as a spouse of fifty years?

Sometimes I hear people say that they pray all day long, by which I hear them to say, “I don’t have a particular time when I pray, but I find myself praying in lots of different situations, like when I’m in the shower, driving, working, shopping, cooking dinner, and lying in bed at night.” Usually, people who say that aren’t asking me for spiritual advice, but, if they were, I’d tell them that that’s a load of B.S.. 

Yes, Saint Paul encouraged us to pray without ceasing, and it’s wonderful to make time throughout the day for moments of prayer, but, if your prayer life looks like a collection of 20-second check-ins with God while you’re stopped at a red light, you have a life that is sprinkled with prayer rather than a life that is nourished by it. That’s like leaving your house every day without your wallet and hoping you’ll find enough change on the sidewalk to buy your lunch. You can live that way if you have to, but it’s not easy.

I suppose what I’m really asking you to think about is not the why and when and for what you pray but the role that prayer plays in your life. Why do you pray? What purpose does prayer serve in your life? What purpose do you want it to serve? And are the ways that you are currently praying actually giving you what you really need? Or is your pattern of prayer more like trying to fill a swimming pool one teaspoon at a time?

Whatever your prayer life is like, the good news I have for you today is that there is no better time to work on it than Lent. Among the three classic spiritual disciplines of Lent—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—prayer comes first. It is the first thing we are called to attend to during this holy season. Lent is a time when the faithful prepare their hearts for the joy of Easter, and the first way we do that is prayer. 

Of course, Easter will come whether we’re ready for it or not. Because of God’s grace and mercy, the hope of our redemption is found not in our spiritual preparedness but in God’s willingness to love us and save us despite our spiritual inadequacies. That is, after all, the message of the cross and empty tomb. But preparing our hearts for Easter allows the joy of our salvation to come more fully into our individual lives, and prayer is how we do that. Prayer is the way we invite the wounded and risen Christ to be present within us. Prayer is how we make space for Jesus, which means that prayer is the vehicle or channel through which the kingdom that Christ brings with him comes to us and through us. 

As hymnist Frederick Hosmer wrote,

Thy kingdom come! On bended knee
the passing ages pray;
and faithful souls have yearned to see
on earth that kingdom's day. [1]

He wrote that hymn for the commencement ceremony at Meadville Theological School in Meadville, Pennsylvania, in June 1891.  I suspect that choir directors have a field day with the first two lines of that hymn because, as you can see, there is no punctuation that separates them. Because of that, despite our instinct to take a breath after the word “knee,” we’re supposed to carry on, holding that note until the next one comes. If, instead, the choir and congregation stop to breathe, we end up declaring that God’s kingdom comes on bended knee—as if the kingdom itself has its knees bent—rather than recalling those who, throughout the passing ages, pray on bended knee that God’s kingdom will come. But I think Hosmer, the nineteenth-century poet, knew what he was doing. I think he wanted us to imagine the ways that the reign of God comes through those whose knees are bent in prayer.

In Matthew’s gospel account, Jesus lays out a radical vision of the kingdom of God: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…Blessed are those who mourn…Blessed are the meek…Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…Blessed are the merciful…Blessed are the pure in heart…Blessed are the peacemakers…Blessed are those who are persecuted…” In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus describes for us what God sees—what the world looks like when God’s ways are fully established on the earth. This description is not delivered to us as an imperative. In the Beatitudes, Jesus does not tell us what to do in order to make God’s kingdom come. He simply describes it for us—he invites us to imagine it. But, in today’s reading from Matthew 6, which we heard a little bit ago, Jesus tells us how to make that vision a reality.

“When you pray, do not heap up empty phrases, thinking that you will be heard because of your many words. God already knows what you need before you open your mouth. Instead, pray like this: Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” Jesus teaches us to pray God’s kingdom come. The coming of God’s kingdom and the doing of God’s will are not separate petitions; they are the same thing. And Jesus shows us that prayer is how that two-pronged reality comes to bear in our lives and, through us, in the world. 

Prayer is how we learn to accept with genuine gratitude the basic sustenance that is our daily bread. Prayer is how we find within us the capacity to forgive others so that we, too, might be forgiven. Prayer is what makes it possible for the turning of the cheek and the blessing of our enemies. Prayer is what brings us into the kingdom of God by uniting us with the one who brings the kingdom of God to us, our savior, Jesus Christ. 

Every time we pray, we invite God’s will to become manifest in us and through us. Whether it’s with the familiar words of the prayer that Jesus taught us or those of any other prayer we lift up to God, our prayers, Jesus teaches us, should always be like this one. They must always be a means by which the reign of God comes to us and through us into the world. That’s why a life of prayer takes more than a handful of 20-second encounters spread throughout the day, and it requires even more than a few hours set aside on Sunday mornings. We pray so that Christ will shape us for God’s glorious reign, and that takes deep connection and intimacy with God.

Frederick Hosmer knew that signs of God’s kingdom were already visible on distant hills, and he knew that prayer is the means by which they come into focus. For it is only on bended knee that we behold, as he wrote,  

The day in whose clear-shining light
all wrong shall stand revealed,
when justice shall be throned in might,
and every hurt be healed;

When knowledge, hand in hand with peace,
shall walk the earth abroad:
the day of perfect righteousness,
the promised day of God. [2]

______________________________________

1. http://www.hymntime.com/tch/htm/t/h/y/k/thykcobk.htm.

2. Ibid. 

Fasting Is Intimacy With God

 

March 5, 2025 – Ash Wednesday

Isaiah 58:1-12; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

In the spring of 1538, the price of eggs skyrocketed. At the previous Easter, one could buy a dozen eggs for a penny. But, by mid-March of that year, a penny would only get you eight, and the reason for this fifty-percent egg-inflation was a strange consequence of church and state.

As Lent approached, King Henry VIII knew he had a problem on his hands. For unknown reasons, the nation’s catch of fish had plummeted, and for a kingdom of people who loved their religious fasts, a shortage of fish was a big problem. Back then, when people fasted, they abstained not only from meat but from all animal products, including milk, cheese, and eggs. And they fasted not only during the forty days of Lent but all throughout the year—on the eves of most major feasts, on Fridays, on ember days, and on lots of other days. Some were so pious that, on whatever day of the week the Feast of the Annunciation (March 25) fell, they would fast on that weekday for the rest of the year!

Fish, therefore, were a staple of the 16th-century English diet, and a nation that did not have access to its fish was prone to revolt. So Henry VIII, whose supreme authority over the church in England had already been declared by Parliament, decreed that “white meats,” such as cheese and eggs, were no longer prohibited by the Lenten fast. It was a royal, “Let them eat eggs!” if you will, and eggs they ate, sending their price through the roof.

Of course, not everyone accepts the religious decrees issued by the head of state, and many traditionalists refused to give up their Lenten devotions. In a sermon, Thomas Coveley, the Vicar of Tysehurst, denounced both the king’s act and, by implication, the supremacy behind it, preaching, “Ye will not fast lent, ye will eat white meat, yea, and [if] it were not for shame, ye would eat a piece of bacon instead of a red herring. I dare say there be a hundred thousand worse people now than there were this time twelvemonth [ago] within England.” [1] 

Among Anglican clergy, I have pretty strong Protestant tendencies, and, when it comes to picking a side between King Henry and Thomas Coveley, who also declared that Bible-reading was the detestable habit of “botchers, bunglers, and cobblers” and, thus, was to be discouraged, I tend to side with the reformers. [2] But, on Ash Wednesday, as Mother Church stands at the threshold of another holy season of Lent, I find that even my suppressed, lowercase-c catholic instincts are again being awakened, but only if we get our priorities right.

Surely the purpose and benefit of a Lenten fast lie not in its economic impact nor in its political motivation nor even in its denominational affiliation but in its ability to unite an individual—in body, mind, and spirit—with its Maker. The fasting, which we endeavor to keep these forty days, is not about meeting the expectations of our neighbors or fulfilling the obligations of our church but about making ourselves more fully available to God.

“Whenever you fast,” Jesus taught us, “do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” The word translated for us as “reward” literally means “payback” or “return.” The question that Jesus puts before us, therefore, is whether the goal of our fasting is to receive something in return from other people or from God, or, to put it simply, whether our Lenten focus is on earth or in heaven.

No matter how Protestant your proclivities, I think all of us can accept that not every Lenten discipline is devoid of spiritual power. Jesus says that, as long as our fasting is done in secret, God is faithful and will honor our spiritual work by returning to us the fruit of that labor. But remembering what form that fruit will take is essential. As Isaiah warns us, human beings tend to distort religious practices like fasting until they become empty gestures designed to serve our own interests. A real, true, and faithful fast, on the other hand, seeks “to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke…to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house.”

If offered quietly to God, fasting has the ability to awaken our conscience to see around us what God sees—the unmet needs of our neighbors. And the grumbling of our empty stomachs becomes the voice of the chronically hungry—a voice that our fasting teaches us not to ignore. There is divine power, grace, and love that come from our Lenten fast. When we abstain from the ordinary pleasures and comforts of a full life as a means by which we draw nearer to God, we invite God to conform us more fully to the divine will—a will which is always lovingly responsive to the needs of others. 

But I think there’s more to it than that. There’s no doubt that fasting has the psychological benefit of quickening your conscience and that giving all the food you otherwise would have eaten to someone who is hungry will make a big difference in their life. But I believe that fasting, like prayer, is an offering to God that God can use to do amazing things in the world. When, with God’s help, we offer a holy fast selflessly to God, our fasting has divine potential. It is a channel or vehicle through which God acts, not only by inspiring the pious to seek God’s will but even in ways that transcend psychological or scientific explanation. When we draw near to God, God draws near to the world through us. Fasting, therefore, is a means for deep intimacy and exchange with the divine.

I don’t understand how that works, and I feel a little silly saying it out loud, but I believe that, when we fast, God receives the genuine offering our ourselves and responds to that offering in love. The faithful have always known that. Whether it’s an army assembling on the eve of battle, a parent caring for a sick child, a prophet preparing for an arduous journey, a nation fearing for its future, or a congregation anticipating a day of celebration, God’s people consecrate themselves through fasting in order that God might be present among them in ways that exceed their own abilities. But that will never be the case if their fasting is offered for their own interests and not for God’s. 

Jesus tells us to wash our face and put oil on our heads in order that our fasting might be done in secret. He says that not only to teach us the value of humility but also to ensure that our spiritual work will bear the fruit we seek. You can save a lot of money by giving up meat or eggs for Lent. You can lose a few pounds if you give up sweets and alcohol. You can even impress your family and friends by showing them how faithful you are in keeping your Lenten fast. If that’s the reward you’re after, go for it. I promise that you’ll get what you’re looking for. But, if you want to see what God can do, don’t tell anyone about it, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

__________________________________

1. Duffy, Eamon. The Stripping of the Altars. Yale UP; New Haven: 1992, 405.

2. Ibid.

Sacrifice as Spiritual Practice

 

February 23, 2025 – The 7th Sunday after the Epiphany, Year C

Genesis 45:3-11, 15; 1 Corinthians 15:35-38,42-50; Luke 6:27-38

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

Last Sunday, we heard Jesus say some amazing things: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you…for surely your reward is great in heaven.” Those hopeful words convey Jesus’ vision for God’s reign. They give us a glimpse of what the world looks like when all of God’s promises have been fulfilled.

But Jesus wasn’t finished. With that hopeful vision came a terrifying reality: “Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.” With those words, Jesus reminds us that God’s reign is not only consequential for those who are poor and suffering. It also means transformation for those who are rich and comfortable. 

How are we supposed to get from here to there? How will we find the strength and courage and grace to let go of our allegiance to the powers of this world and embrace fully the kingdom of God? 

Today, in the verses that come immediately after those blessings and woes, we hear the answer. In this gospel lesson, Jesus invites us into that reality. Having described God’s reign and effectively announced its arrival, Jesus now helps us know how we are to live as citizens of that reign. And, for those of us who sometimes feel so very far away from God’s vision for our lives, hearing Jesus lay it all out for us is most definitely good news. 

Here's what it means for us to accept Jesus’ invitation to live in the kingdom of God: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who abuse you.” Faced with such lofty and challenging ideals, we may prefer to rest in the comfort of our abstractions, content to fulfill Jesus’ commands with nothing more than an artificial emotional gesture, but Jesus will not let us off the hook so easily. 

“If anyone strikes you on the cheek,” he continues, “offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again.” This is not the language of intent or hypothetical encounter. Jesus means these words. He means for us to bear the consequences of our participation in the reign of God with our bodies and our wallets, with our dignity and our security. For what does it mean to dwell secure under the shadow of God’s wings without giving up our own earthly security for the sake of another?

So far, it seems as if Jesus hasn’t made this any easier. He’s told us what it means to belong to God and God’s reign, but we still need him to show us how. He hasn’t given us the answer we’re looking for—the simple and sustainable technique that will make all of this possible. But the answer we’re looking for doesn’t come from somewhere else. It’s already right here in front of us. It comes simply by accepting the invitation to follow Jesus into this other-worldly way of being not as a means by which we must save the world but as the path that leads to our own salvation. Here’s what I mean by that.

We tend to hear Jesus’ radical instructions as if God is telling us to do these things only for the sake of others. To the one who would take our coat, we offer our shirt as well so that they might be warm. To those who would beg or borrow from us, we give what they seek without asking anything in return so that their needs might be satisfied. It is good and right for us to respond to the needs of others. But it is our own need for salvation that we seek when we follow in the footsteps of Jesus. 

“If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?” Jesus asks. “For even sinners love those who love them.” Jesus uses the accounting term “credit” to show us that it is we who will benefit from these self-sacrificial acts. “Love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return,” Jesus tells us. “Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High.” It is in practicing this Christ-like generosity, even by emptying ourselves for the sake of others, that we discover our true identity as children of God. 

St. Basil the Great wrote, “Someone who takes a man who is clothed and renders him naked would be termed a robber; but when someone fails to clothe the naked, while he is able to do this, is such a man deserving of any other appellation? The bread which you hold back belongs to the hungry; the coat, which you guard in your locked storage-chests, belongs to the naked; the footwear mouldering in your closet belongs to those without shoes. The silver that you keep hidden in a safe place belongs to the one in need.” [1] We give and give and give again not simply to meet the needs of others but to meet our own need to discover our place in the reign of God.

When we pretend that these sacrificial gestures do not benefit us as well, we cut ourselves off from the body of Christ. When we act as if our duty to care for others is not also a duty to ourselves, we make the way of Jesus a road too steep for any of us to climb. That does not mean that our radical generosity will fail to have a lasting effect on others. As St. Paul wrote in his Letter to the Romans, when we feed our hungry enemies and give those who thirst something to drink, we effectively “heap burning coals on their heads,” but isn’t that generosity more sustainable when we do it because it is as good for us as it is for them (Romans 12:20)?

Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the hungry. Blessed are those who weep. Blessed are those who suffer. Jesus announces that blessedness. He declares to us and, thus, gives to us the grace of God’s love which is manifest not in our accomplishments but in our shortcomings. That emptiness is where true blessedness is to be found. That is what it means to belong to God—to be a part of God’s reign. And that truth only becomes clear to us when we walk the way of the cross—when we follow in the footsteps of Jesus. 

Jesus has told us who we are. He has shown us what it means to belong to God’s reign—what it means to be a child of the Most High. We do not empty ourselves in order to become worthy of God’s kingdom, for that would be to rob the cross of its power and make it an idol of human greed. No, we empty ourselves in order to discover our true selves—in order to learn what it means to be a people who, by the grace of God, belong not to this world but to the world to come. We practice these impossible things because they teach us who God has already made us to be.

___________________________

1. From St. Basil the Great, Homilia in illud dictum evangelii secundum Lucam: «Destruam horrea mea, et majora ædificabo:» itemque de avaritia, §7, https://bekkos.wordpress.com/2009/10/08/st-basil-on-stealing-from-the-poor/.

A Most Necessary Conversion

 

January 26, 2025 – Conversion of Saint Paul the Apostle (transferred)

Acts 26:9-21; Galatians 1:11-24; Matthew 10:16-22

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

Unity…is the threshold requirement for people to live together in a free society; it is the solid rock, as Jesus said…upon which to build a nation. It is not conformity. It is not a victory of one over another. It is not weary politeness nor passivity born of exhaustion. Unity is not partisan. Rather, unity is a way of being with one another that encompasses and respects differences, that teaches us to hold multiple perspectives and life experiences as valid and worthy of respect; that enables us, in our communities and in the halls of power, to genuinely care for one another even when we disagree. (https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2025/jan/24/bishop-mariann-edgar-budde-sermon-that-enraged-donald-trump)

Bishop Mariann Budde, the Bishop of Washington, offered those words near the beginning of her sermon at a prayer service held on Tuesday at the National Cathedral. It was the end of her sermon, when she asked President Trump to be merciful, that has received outsized attention, inspiring both celebration and vitriol. 

Some people are calling Bishop Budde a hero. Others are likening her to Satan. Hardly anyone is talking about whether it was a good sermon, which is what happens when preachers decide to tack on a juicy soundbite that overshadows the rest of their carefully chosen words. The polarized response to Bishop Budde’s sermon is further evidence of what she called “the culture of contempt that has become normalized in our country.” No matter what side of our nation’s political divisions you land on, how you heard her words is likely a manifestation of the convictions you held long before you knew that there was a prayer service on Tuesday at the National Cathedral. 

And you know what? No matter what those convictions are, you are still a child of God. And so are the people whose convictions are the opposite of your own. Those who celebrated Bishop Budde’s sermon love Jesus just as much as those who called her an instrument of Satan. Those who believe that her words were important, prophetic, and appropriate are seeking to be faithful to God just as much as those who believe that her words represent everything that is wrong with mainline Christianity and this country. Until we can accept that, the vision of unity that Bishop Budde held out in her sermon—the unity that God has promised in the kingdom of God—will remain nothing more than an aspiration. To achieve that unity will require our conversion.

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul the Apostle, the patronal feast of this parish. But I wonder what sort of conversion we should be celebrating. I think it’s safe to say that St. Paul was converted to the way of Jesus—to Christianity—but the word conversion implies not only a new destination but also a point of departure—a starting place or status quo which one must leave behind if one is to undergo conversion. 

Throughout the centuries, many Christian preachers have done a lot of harm—both to Paul and to his Jewish counterparts—by stating or implying that, when Paul became a Christian, he gave up being a Jew. But that isn’t the conversion we see manifested in Paul’s letters or the in record of his missionary activities contained in the Acts of the Apostles. Paul was Jewish from the day of his birth until the day of his death. But, when he met Jesus on the Damascus Road, he underwent a conversion which enabled him to recognize and participate in the reign of God. And, if we’re going to be a part of that reign, it’s a conversion that we must undergo as well.

“You have heard, no doubt, of my earlier life in Judaism,” Paul wrote to the Christians in Galatia. “I was violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it.” Have you ever wondered why Paul was so angry at the early church? In his book, Paul: A Biography, N. T. Wright explains that Paul belonged to a branch of Judaism that believed that the kingdom of God was near—very near. Any day, they believed, God would send the messiah to deliver God’s people from their oppressors. And the only thing standing in the way of the fulfillment of God’s promises, they believed, was the faithlessness of God’s people. 

Paul believed that God’s reign would only come to the earth when God’s people were of one mind and one heart, purified in their religion and united in their worship of the one God. To a religious zealot like Paul, the way of Jesus—with its willingness to embrace notorious sinners and its less-than-scrupulous approach to sabbath observance and dietary restrictions—worked directly against all of that. And he believed that God had called him to put a stop to it. “If we can just get rid of these half-hearted believers and get everyone to take God seriously,” Paul might well have thought to himself, “then we can bring the kingdom of God to the earth.”

We know what happens when unwavering conviction is married to religious fervor. If you really believed that the fullness of God’s reign would come to the earth if you only took the life of another human being, you, too, would become as murderous as Paul. That may be the very bottom of a slippery slope that starts with something that seems far more innocent, but who among us isn’t tempted by the proposition that the greatest obstacle to God’s vision for the world is those people who disagree with us. The problem with that sort of thinking—besides the fact that it is based on an understanding that God’s reign could ever be revealed through violence—is that it makes the kingdom of God something that depends on us. And, as soon as the coming reign of God is something that depends on us, God becomes as narrow as our own idolatrous imaginings.  

What confronted Paul on the Damascus Road was his own failure of faithfulness. Despite being more advanced in Judaism than almost any of his contemporaries—despite being more faithful to God than anyone he knew—Paul had allowed his zealotry for God to stand in the way of God. But God did not let Paul’s failure stand in the way of God’s reign. Instead, that reign came to Paul in exactly the way that Paul sought to undermine it—through Jesus. In that moment, when Jesus showed Paul that God’s reign did not depend upon Paul or his zealotry but, instead, had already come through Christ’s own death and resurrection, Paul was converted. He was converted from a vision of the kingdom that began with his own faithfulness to a vision of the kingdom that begins with the faithfulness of God.

“I want you to know, brothers and sisters,” Paul wrote with clarity and enthusiasm, “that the gospel that was proclaimed by me is not of human origin; for I did not receive it from a human source, nor was I taught it, but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ.” In other words, you couldn’t make this up if you tried. If it were up to us, we would tell God exactly how and when and where and to whom the kingdom of God should be revealed. And it would always be to people like us and for people like us and to the exclusion of people who are not like us. When God’s reign is only allowed to show up in ways that confirm our deeply held convictions, the result is always antithetical to the way of God—no matter whose deeply held convictions are in control. When we believe that God’s kingdom depends on us, we become inflexible, rigid, and unyielding, and that is nothing like God’s gracious and loving reign.

The fullness of God’s reign is not revealed through human effort or triumph but through the cross of Christ—the ultimate symbol of human failure. When we allow ourselves to believe that the kingdom of God is waiting on us to make the world right, we cut ourselves off from the work that God is doing in the world and in our lives. Then, we only hear from preachers and politicians what we expect to hear. And, then, we begin to demonize those who hear something different. And, then, our hope for unity falls apart because the kingdom of God is far from us.

If we are to receive God’s reign, we must be converted from the arrogance of believing that God’s reign is dependent on us. It’s not. And that is most definitely good news. Now, that doesn’t mean that we are supposed to sit idly by and wait on God to sort everything out. The apostle Paul did not stop working for God after he met the risen Christ. Instead, his zeal for God’s reign was transformed into a zeal for sharing God’s love with the world. There is much work ahead for the faithful people of God, but we labor not to make the reign of God a reality on the earth but because, like Paul, we have seen that reign in Jesus, and we have felt it take hold in our lives.

You Belong Here

 

January 12, 2025 – The 1st Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord

Isaiah 43:1-7; Acts 8:14-17; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

How many of you remember your baptism? In our tradition we baptize infants, children, youth, and adults, so those of us who were baptized as little babies won’t remember it. Those of you who grew up in a tradition that doesn’t practice infant baptism have the advantage of remembering what it felt like, and I hope your memories of your baptism are joyful. 

I was less than two weeks old when I was baptized. My mother tells me that, when she realized that both sets of grandparents were already in town to meet their new grandchild, she called the minister and asked if we could go ahead and get it over with. It was short notice, and I can think of at least one seminary professor who would roll his eyes at how brief my parents’ and godparents’ catechetical formation was, but it still took. On that Sunday morning, I was sprinkled with water in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and I was sealed with the indelible mark of Holy Baptism.

We believe that Baptism is the sacrament by which God adopts us as God’s own children and makes us members of Christ’s Body, the Church, and, thus, inheritors of the kingdom of God. That’s what it says in the catechism in the back of the prayer book. As we say in the Thanksgiving over the Water right before someone is baptized, it is through the waters of Baptism that we are united with Christ in his death and resurrection and reborn by the Holy Spirit into a new life of holiness. In other words, a lot of important stuff happens to us in the moment of our baptism, but as today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles reminds us, our baptism is only a starting point. It’s what comes afterwards that really matters.

“When the apostles at Jerusalem heard that Samaria had accepted the word of God, they sent Peter and John to them.” Our lectionary only gives us a tiny piece of a much larger and more interesting story. It started with the death of Stephen, the first Christian martyr, who was stoned to death by the religious leaders as Saul, our church’s namesake, looked on. After that, a severe persecution broke out, and most Christians scattered throughout the region to avoid arrest, torture, and death. The apostles, we are told, stayed put in Jerusalem, but other leaders, like Philip, fled to the countryside of Judea and to Samaria.

As Tertullian would write about 165 years later, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church, and it was during that dispersion of the faithful that the good news of Jesus Christ began to reach those outside the geographic, ethnic, and cultural center where it had started. Even under duress, Philip preached the gospel to the Samaritans—those ancient relatives of the Jewish people whose way had diverged from their southern counterparts after the Assyrian conquest of the northern kingdom of Israel. 

When the Samaritans, whose tradition included an early form of the Pentateuch but did not include any of the prophets who anticipated the coming of a messiah, heard about Jesus and saw the signs that Philip did, they were amazed. In accordance with the earliest Christian practice, these new converts were baptized into the faith. The Way of Jesus had spread beyond its Jewish roots. But something was missing.

When the apostles back in Jerusalem heard that the Samaritans had accepted the word of God, they sent Peter and John to them. When the two apostles arrived, they immediately recognized that, although these new Samaritan converts had received baptism in Jesus’ name, they had not yet received the Holy Spirit. So the apostles, who were the bearers of the Spirit’s power—those who had received the Holy Spirit when it descended upon them at Pentecost—prayed and laid hands on the new believers, who were immediately filled with the Holy Spirit. 

I don’t know exactly what that looked like, but I’m pretty sure it was a noisy, frenetic, uncontainable display of energy, love, enthusiasm, and faithfulness. In some traditions, the primary manifestation of the Spirit’s power is the gift of tongues. We don’t do a lot of speaking in tongues in The Episcopal Church, but I absolutely think we’ve got to leave room for the Holy Spirit to surprise us and unsettle us and encourage us in ways we didn’t see coming. 

That’s what so interesting about this little story—that the Holy Spirit and Baptism are inextricably linked, but sometimes they don’t show up together. And I think the key to understanding why is found not only in the experience of the Samaritan converts but also in the experience of the apostles, who in this encounter faced their own sort of conversion. 

It is impossible for us to appreciate how radical it was that the Way of Jesus and, thus, the family of God bent around to include the Samaritans. They were universally and unequivocally hated by the Jewish people. Just as it is often easier for us to accept the inclusion of someone who never had a part in our endeavors than to welcome back someone who betrayed us, so, too, would it have been easier for the apostles to accept a group of Gentile converts than these Samaritans. They belonged to a religious sect that had defined itself largely through their rejection of the messianic tradition, especially one that was traced back to King David, and now they wanted to belong to God through Jesus the Messiah. 

It is no accident that the Samaritan Christians’ full participation in the Body of Christ and the community of the Holy Spirit is put on hold until the apostles can lay their hands on them. That’s not because the apostles have magic fingers. It’s because they are representatives of the church, and the church is the place where the life of the faithful is lived out, and the Samaritans cannot live out that life until the church has made room for them. 

The Samaritans were already believers. They already had faith in Jesus. As far as historians and theologians can tell, their baptism in Jesus’ name was the same trinitarian baptism that we still use today. What was different was the fact that the church had never received someone like them, and the church had to undergo its own conversion before these new Christians could live out their faith.

In our tradition, we use the sacramental rite of Confirmation as a way for those of us who were baptized as children to confirm the promises that were made on our behalf and accept the Christian faith for ourselves. But there’s a reason that we only allow bishops to administer the rite of Confirmation. That’s because, when we are confirmed, it is not only we who are confirming our acceptance of the Christian faith, but it is also the church itself, through its apostolic representative, who is confirming our place within the community of faith. Bishops are our link to the apostles, and, when Bishop Harmon comes for confirmation, he comes to make room in the church for each one of us.

The truth is that we don’t need a bishop to welcome us into the Christian community. We recognize that Baptism is the full initiation into the Body of Christ. But we also recognize that Baptism is only a beginning. As Father Chuck often said during baptism rehearsals, there’s nothing in the baptismal rite that says that, once you present your child for baptism, we have to give them back. This is the place where those who are baptized live out the faith that they declare or that is declared on their behalf. This is the community in which our faith comes alive. We are the family through which the Holy Spirit moves and breathes and comes among us with power. 

Whether you have been confirmed or not, whether a successor of the apostles has ever laid hands on your head, whether you think of yourself as a member of this church or you’re just here as a visitor, all of us who have been baptized into the Body of Christ are called to seek the Holy Spirit. Baptism is just a starting point—our initiation into the Way of Jesus. If we are going to follow that way and live out that life, we need the help of God’s Spirit, and we need the church, where we share in its power. 

The story of Philip and the Samaritan Christians shows us that the Christian life can only take shape within the context of the church and that the church can only take shape when it makes room for everyone. This is the family of God, the community of the Holy Spirit. If you have ever been baptized, this is where you belong. And, if this is where you belong and you have never been baptized, let me know. There’s already room for you here.

Always Part of the Plan

 

December 29, 2024 – The 1st Sunday after Christmas Day

Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7; John 1:1-18

© 2024 Evan D. Garner

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Those are the four gospel accounts. There aren’t four gospels. There’s only one gospel—the singular good news of Jesus Christ. But there are four accounts of that one gospel, and we need all four. 

Some people love to argue that originally there were lots of gospels and that the institutional church only restricted the number to the four we have in the Bible to suit its own needs, but the people who claim that aren’t very good at history. They’re usually trying to sell you a book or get you to watch their series on the History Channel or convince you to share something on social media. Although there have been lots of different texts that call themselves “gospels” or “good news,” the four accounts of the canonical gospel—unlike almost all of those alternate texts—were in their current form by the end of the first century. And, by 180AD, the church, which had not yet developed an apparatus for centralized decision making, recognized by consensus that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John collectively represent the singular and true good news of Jesus Christ. 

What makes the four-fold gospel tradition even more interesting is its willingness to embrace diversity as an essential component of the fullest manifestation of the one truth. You probably know this, but none of the four gospel accounts start the same way. Matthew begins with a genealogy of Jesus before launching in with the story of Mary’s pregnancy and Jospeh’s dream-inspired decision not to break off their engagement. Luke starts with the parallel pregnancy stories of Elizabeth and Mary, the mothers of John the Baptist and Jesus, before giving us the beloved story of the shepherds, angels, and the manger, which we hear at Christmas. Mark skips all of that and begins his account thirty years later with John the Baptist’s call to repentance and the moment Jesus came out of the water and saw the Holy Spirit descending upon him. 

But then John came along and said, “Holy my beer.” We’re not going to begin with the start of Jesus’ ministry. We’re not going to start with Jesus’ birth. We’re not going to start with John the Baptist or even with a genealogy that traces Jesus’ ancestry all the way back to Abraham. We’re going to start at the beginning. We’re going to start even before the beginning—before time itself had been created. We’re going to start with God and God alone, when the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

When John and the community of Christians around him that grew together in faith sought to tell the good news of God’s love, they knew that the story of salvation, which stretched back even before the beginning of time, had always had Jesus Christ, the incarnate Son of God, at its very center. For John, starting anywhere else was inadequate. The same unified work of God that brought light and life into the universe had brought Jesus of Nazareth into the world as its savior. 

The incarnation, the virgin birth, the presentation in the temple, the baptism by John in the Jordan, the anointing of the Holy Spirit, the temptation in the wilderness, the sermon on the mount, the feeding of the five thousand, the walking on the water, the healing of the sick, the raising of the dead, the transfiguration on the mountain top, the dying on the cross, the resurrection on the third day, the ascension into heaven, and the sending of the Holy Ghost—all of those moments in the story of Jesus have their origin in eternal and timeless Word that, in the beginning, was with God and was God. But the good news of Jesus does not stop there.

When God spoke and there was light, when the waters were gathered together into seas, when plants and birds and fish and animals began to grow and fly and swim and walk, when Adam was formed of the dust of the ground, when the breath of life was breathed into his nostrils and he became a living being, when Noah and his family were rescued in the ark, when Abram heard and answered God’s call, when Moses raised his staff and parted the Red Sea, when the Law was given to God’s people, when Israel crossed the Jordan and entered the land of promise, when they were set free from the Babylonian captivity and returned home, when they waited for the coming of God’s anointed—all of those moments in the history of time have their origin in the eternal Word that has always been.

The salvation of the world did not begin with the birth of Jesus. It began before the world was created. By starting his gospel account with this cosmic prologue, John lets us know that the good news of Jesus Christ is not a plan that God hatched in response to Roman oppression. The way of Jesus is not something God dreamt up as a solution to first-century problems or as an answer to the prayers of our long-dead ancestors. This is how the world was made to be. It was made by and through and for the one to whom we belong. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Jesus, the incarnate Word, is the very foundation of and fulfillment of our existence.

And yet the incarnate Word—the universal light that shines from within all of creation—that light which can never be overcome by darkness—came into a world that did not universally receive it. As C.K. Barrett wrote of God’s sending of that light, it was “an almost unmitigated failure.” “The world came into being through him,” John tells us, “yet the world did not know him.” How can that be? How can God send us the savior whose work of salvation has been written into the very fabric of creation only to have us reject him? Because, as John expresses so beautifully, “the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.”

In the incarnate Son of God, we see that God’s nature is grace and truth—not coercion or violence, not force or manipulation, not threat or compulsion, but grace and freedom and love. And that means that, although we recognize the fullness of God in the person of Jesus Christ, not everyone sees what we see. Not everyone wants to receive the light. Yet even that—even the incomplete, unfinished, imperfect response to God’s love—is somehow a part of God’s saving plan. Even those moments of failure have their origin in the eternal and timeless Word.

“All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.” The eating of the forbidden fruit, the murder of Abel at the hands of his brother, the wickedness that provoked the great flood, the arrogance that built the tower of Babel, the captivity under Pharoah in Egypt, the hardship God’s people suffered in the wilderness, the indiscriminate bloodshed by which Israel conquered the land of Canaan, the idolatry that corrupted the nation, the persecution of the prophets, even the rejection of God’s Son—they are all within the cosmic boundaries of what was created through God’s eternal Word. None of them is beyond the reach of God. God is not glorified by them, but God can and will redeem them for God’s glory. And that’s not all.

“The Word became flesh and lived among us.” There is nothing in all of creation that is beyond the reach of God’s saving love, and that means that there is nothing in our lives that God will not redeem. No struggle, no grief, no illness, no anxiety, no isolation, no failure, no doubt, no worry—nothing at all that we can ever experience that lies outside of God’s plan of salvation.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Why doesn’t God hurry up and fix everything that is wrong in our lives? Why doesn’t God just snap God’s fingers and make all things right? Because God is gracious. Because God invites us to recognize his love, and, when we don’t, God still finds a way to fold it into God’s saving work. How much easier life would be if God took over and forced the divine will upon us, but then we wouldn’t recognize our lives or our God.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Everything that has ever been has been created in and through and for God. Jesus’ work of redemption has always been a part of that story, and so have you. There is no part of your life that does not belong to God. There is no struggle in your life that is beyond the redemption of the cosmic Christ. John’s account of the gospel reminds us of that, and that is good news.