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.

Commitment To Christ-Like Love

 

April 17, 2025 – Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

I mentioned in the announcements on Sunday that I’m always surprised that more people don’t show up to the Maundy Thursday service. It’s such a beautiful, tender, and dramatic way to begin these three holy days, and I’m glad you’re here. But, tonight, I’m also glad that there aren’t more people with us because I want to say something that, if the wrong people heard it, might get me into trouble. Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t really like the invitation we say before coming to Communion: whoever you are and wherever you are on your pilgrimage of faith, you are welcome in this place, and you are welcome at God’s table.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, that hasn’t stopped me from saying it. I remember the search committee asking me about it when they interviewed me for this position. I don’t remember what I told them, but I remember thinking to myself, “Oh boy! That sounds really important, and I guess I’m going to have to find a way to say it.” Later on, early in my time here, I forgot to say those words at one of the Sunday-morning services. It just slipped my mind. Sometimes that happens. But, on the way out of church, a parishioner stopped and asked me about it. “Why didn’t you say the invitation to Communion?” she asked accusingly. “Don’t you believe those words? Have you decided not to say them anymore?”

As a statement of invitation and welcome, those familiar words—whoever you are and wherever you are—are a fundamental expression of the character of this parish. It’s not that character that I have a problem with. In fact, that’s the thing I love most about St. Paul’s. It’s why I accepted the call to serve as your rector. The part that gives me pause is their incompleteness—it’s what we don’t say next. Hospitality and inclusion, regardless of denominational affiliation or doctrinal allegiance, are a hallmark of St. Paul’s and of the wider Episcopal tradition. But this sacramental meal that we share is nothing less than the complete offering of ourselves into the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and that seems to demand more than a simple word of invitation. 

Every time we receive Holy Communion, we reenact our sacred commitment to Christ’s way of living and loving and dying, which God has shown to be the way of salvation, and that seems like an awfully big ask for a first date. There’s no easy way to say to visitors and newcomers that anyone and everyone is welcome to take Communion in this place as long as they are ready to love other people the way that Jesus loved them, which is to say as long as they are willing to die not only for the people who love them back but even for those who don’t love them at all. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I want to hear that every week, either. But that’s what Jesus says to us tonight.

Do this in remembrance of me. It is an imperative. When Jesus was at the table with his disciples on the night before he died, he took a loaf of bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” After supper, he did the same with the cup of wine, saying, “Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthian church are the earliest written record of Holy Communion. He shows us that Jesus’s followers have been sharing this sacred meal not only as a way of remembering Jesus but also as a way of “proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes.” 

The word translated for us as “proclaiming” literally means “down-declaring,” which carries the same connotation we might use when describing how an authority figure like a parent or a teacher has “laid down the law.” It means to announce something significant and with conviction. When we share Communion, therefore, we are not only recalling in our minds what Jesus did for us, but we are declaring to the world with conviction the centrality of Jesus’s death in our lives.

In the gospel lesson for Maundy Thursday, we hear another imperative that has its roots in the same meal. Interestingly enough, although Holy Communion has always been central to our identity as Christians, the Gospel according to John does not mention it. The other gospel accounts—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—all record Jesus’s command that we are to share the bread and wine—Christ’s body and blood—in remembrance of him. But John recalls another aspect of that Last Supper: the washing of the disciples’ feet. 

As Jesus put a towel around his waist and prepared, like a servant, to wash the disciples’ feet, Peter objected vehemently: “You will never wash my feet!” It is absurd, if you think about it, for the King of kings to stoop down on the floor and wash the feet of his subjects—his followers. Peter wanted no part of it, yet Jesus insisted. This was not merely an act of humility. It was a pattern for us to follow. “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet,” Jesus said, “you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” For us, Jesus provides not only a model of humble service but also of the radical love that undergirds it. That is the new commandment that Jesus has given us—that we love one another just as he has loved us—and we pledge ourselves to that way of love every time we gather at this table.

When the nature of that love becomes clear, the absurdity behind it becomes even more profound. As John’s description of that night shows us, Jesus not only washed the feet of Peter and the rest of the eleven disciples who remained faithful to him, but he also washed the feet of Judas his betrayer. “Not all of you are clean,” Jesus said, but he washed all of their feet. Similarly, in the synoptic gospel tradition, when Jesus gave the blessed bread and wine to his disciples, Judas was still there at the table. “This is my body, which is given for you,” he said even to the one who had betrayed him to death. The death of Jesus, which we proclaim every time we share Holy Communion, was not withheld even from the one who set that death in motion.

What did Judas feel in his heart as he looked down at his teacher, the one he would soon arrange to be arrested, washing his feet? What maddening thoughts must have gone through his mind as he received this gesture of incomprehensible love from the one whose love he would reject? What did Jesus feel in his heart as he knelt down before his betrayer and washed his feet as carefully and lovingly as he washed anyone else’s? What do we feel in our hearts when we realize that Jesus’s offering of himself upon the cross was not given for the sake of our best selves but even for that part of us that is utterly unworthy of his love? What does it feel like to know that we must love others like that?

In one sense, I need to hear those words beckoning me back to the table each time we gather in this place: whoever you are and wherever you are in your pilgrimage of faith, you are welcome in this place, and you are welcome at God’s table. That part of me that struggles to believe that Jesus’s sacrifice—his love—is meant for me yearns to hear those words of welcome. And so I say them each time—not only to you but to my own heart. And yet all of us must also hear the significance of that invitation—that, if we are going to share this sacred meal not only in remembrance of Jesus but as an expression of who we are and who we desire to become, we must make his sacrificial love the defining characteristic of our lives.

This is not a casual encounter. It is not a chance to get acquainted with Jesus and try his love on for size. When you come to that table, you are accepting that the way Jesus loves each one of us must become the way that you love others. And nothing about that is easy. Don’t let our genuine and wide-open invitation obscure the significance of what takes place within us when we partake of Christ’s body and blood.

You don’t need to have everything figured out to come to that table. You don’t need to agree with everything that the church teaches. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t even need to love others the way the Jesus loved them. But you need to want that. You need to want the love of Jesus to break open your heart until you are able to love all people—even your enemies, even those who betray you—with that same love. Everyone is welcome at that table, including you, and that means that you must welcome anyone who comes with the open arms and open heart of Jesus.

Devoted To Mercy

 

April 6, 2025 – The 5th Sunday in Lent, Year C

Isaiah 43:16-21; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12:1-8

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

In the hallway just past the bookstore, right across from Sara’s office, there is a curious window. It is one of three painted-glass windows that depict different moments from Jesus’ life. In this particular window, the large, central image is of Joseph teaching his young son Jesus how to be a carpenter. But that’s not the curious part. The part that I find fascinating is in the upper left corner, in which there is a small, easily overlooked depiction of Judas.

Not every artist decides to include an image of Judas among the other disciples. Sometimes they leave him out entirely, and other times they go ahead and put in Matthias, who was eventually chosen to take Judas’ place. Each window in the hallway includes four different disciples surrounding the central image. They don’t have labels, so you can only tell who is who is by interpreting the iconography that accompanies each one. 

In Judas’ case, you can see that the halo or nimbus, which surrounds the heads of the other eleven disciples with a golden yellow glow, has faded out completely. There is a sadness in his eyes and slightly downturned mouth. But the most obvious detail that gives Judas away is the artist’s depiction of the money bags. While holding out with his right hand a tray that has two purses on it, Judas the betrayer clutches a third bag close to his chest, partially hidden by his robe.

We can thank the author of the fourth gospel account for that understanding of Judas. John is the only one who mentions that Judas stole money from the common purse. Whoever John was—perhaps the beloved disciple himself—he really had it out for Judas. Over and over in his version of the gospel, he adds editorial comments that leave the reader no doubt how evil and wicked Judas was. When Matthew and Mark recall this same episode of Jesus’ anointing at Bethany, it is not Judas who raises the objection about forgetting the needs of the poor but all of the disciples and some of the other people standing around. John, it seems, goes out of his way to throw shade on Judas.

To be frank, Judas probably deserved everything that John gave him, but I think his contempt for the traitor makes it harder for us to appreciate what really happened in Bethany that night. What if, just for a moment, we leave aside John’s dogged criticism of Judas—the portrayal of him as a thief—and, instead, make some rhetorical space in our minds to hear Judas’ question as if it were asked earnestly? What might we hear Jesus say to us if we were the ones who asked, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold for three hundred denarii—a whole year’s worth of wages—and the money given to the poor?”

It's a difficult question, and churches like ours, which spend lots of money every year on things as impermanent as incense and candles, would do well to consider it. I hope it won’t surprise you to hear that I don’t intend to use this sermon to justify our use of incense, candles, or any part of our congregation’s budget. I think the vestry does an excellent job of being faithful to God with the resources that you entrust to this church. What I want to do with this sermon is to wrestle honestly with the answer Jesus gives—an answer that is as hard to understand as the situation that provoked Judas’s question in the first place: “You will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me.”

What does that mean? And how is that supposed to help us feel better about the fact that Mary just poured on Jesus’s feet some perfume that was worth enough money to feed a hungry family for a year? Because we’ll always have the poor with us? What sort of convoluted justification is that?

Well, it turns out that Jesus was quoting a passage from Deuteronomy, which, I think, has the potential to change the way we hear his answer. Deuteronomy 15 lays out some of the regulations for what is called the sabbatical year. According to Jewish law, every seventh year is a sabbatical—or sabbath. During that year, farmers are not supposed to plant crops or tend to what grows in their fields in order that the poor might gather whatever the land produces. Similarly, all debts that have been incurred during the previous six years are cancelled, no matter how much is still owed. Deuteronomy 15, which Jesus quotes in his reply to Judas, deals with the cancelation of those debts.

In that chapter of the Bible, God makes it clear that generous lending and the periodic cancellation of debts will ensure that no one in the land is poor. That is part of God’s vision for justice—a balanced economic system that ensures that no one will suffer generational poverty while others become rich at their expense. Although it might not sound fair to our contemporary, capitalist ears, the system was designed so that everyone—both lenders and borrowers—got a fair shake. 

But God knows that a system of justice cannot be complete without mercy. That’s why, in Deuteronomy 15, the law states that, even if the year of release is near and you know that you will have to cancel a debt before most of it can be repaid, “you shall not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor.” In other words, the merciful response to immediate needs must outweigh a logical or just approach to lending. Mercy outweighs justice.

Taking care of the poor by cancelling debts, the Bible teaches us, is an act of justice. But setting aside the logical implications of that system to be sure that no one goes hungry—even if it means an unfair redistribution of that wealth—is an act of mercy. To get this point across, Deuteronomy 15:11 declares, “There will never cease to be poor in the land; therefore…‘You shall open wide your hand to the poor and your needy neighbor.’” When Jesus says, “You will always have the poor with you,” he is quoting that verse to get across the same point—not to teach us to dismiss the needs of the poor but to recognize that becoming merciful is the only way we will ever be able to care for them fully. Mercy always outweighs justice, and Jesus uses Mary’s anointing of his feet to show it.

According to Jewish custom, even though contact with a corpse makes a person ritually impure, preparing a body for burial is an act of true kindness and mercy—one that can never be repaid. Though the laws of righteousness—of justice— prohibit it, the requirements for loving-kindness—or mercy—compel a person to tend to the needs of the dead. In a spiritual way, therefore, Mary’s act of devotion—of anointing Jesus’ body in preparation for burial—makes her a symbol of true mercy and a reminder to us that, even when it conflicts with our sense of right and wrong, mercy must come before justice. 

Perhaps for years, Mary of Bethany had kept that precious ointment for a special purpose. Without even knowing why, she had it tucked away, waiting for the right moment to come along. Not even the death of her brother Lazarus, which we read about in the previous chapter, was reason enough to use the perfumed oil. But there was something about this moment, as Jesus ate at the table in her house and laughed beside her brother, whose four-day journey into death had been miraculously reversed, that told her it was time.

Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem. He had not disclosed to Mary and her siblings the fate that awaited him there, but somehow Mary could sense it. Perhaps the grief she experienced over her brother’s death had left a mark on her soul, allowing her to see what remained hidden from others. Like the black-winged Thestral from Harry Potter, which is visible only to those who have witnessed death, Mary is able to see that Jesus’s own death has come near. Although still a week away, it is close enough to stir up within Mary complex emotions of grief and love, compelling her to pour the perfume on Jesus’s feet in an act of pure devotion.

Yes, the needs of the poor are more important than a fancy bottle of perfume or the candles and incense we burn at the altar. But nothing is more important than our devotion to the one whose death is the fulfilment of God’s justice and mercy. In the cross of Christ, we see what Mary saw in Bethany that night—the death of God’s Son offered for the sake of the world. When it comes to pondering the nature of Christ’s death, we could remain comfortably in the realm of justice and ask such academic questions as for whom and under what conditions the death of Jesus is efficacious. But then we would miss the magnitude of God’s love enshrined upon the cross—a love that can only be approached as an act of mercy worthy of our complete devotion.

As followers of Jesus, who have been reconciled to God through the death of God’s Son, we must become like Mary of Bethany. We must leave behind our desire for clarity, fairness, and balance, no matter how appealing God’s justice may seem. Maybe that was Judas’s problem all along. Those who will not allow mercy to triumph even over justice cannot know the saving love of God, whose mercy never fails. Those who behold the magnitude of God’s mercy, revealed in Jesus Christ, are shaped by God’s mercy for a life of mercy, which is an offering that is pleasing to God.

Sitting Down With Jesus

 

March 30, 2025 – The 4th Sunday in Lent, Year C

Joshua 5:9-12; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

Some people just ooze faithfulness. They are the grandmothers, the kindergarten teachers, the little league coaches, and the librarians who quietly and faithfully radiate God’s love. Shaped by a life of prayer, they instinctively recognize who needs a hug, who needs a word of encouragement, and who needs another chance, which they freely give without even thinking about it. Many times without knowing it, they are the role models that we think of with gratitude when we recall those people who helped us get where we are.

People like that seem to dress themselves in kindness and compassion as easily as the rest of us put on a T-shirt. But they aren’t particularly showy about their faith. That’s not because they hide it from us. They are quite willing to engage in a conversation about religion, but their relationship with God has more to do with all the little things that guide their everyday lives than the sort of religiosity that grabs the world’s attention.

On the other hand, there are plenty of other people who openly claim their religious identity but lead lives that in no way reflect the faith that they say is theirs. They are the hypocrites, the self-seekers, the power-grabbers, and the manipulators who talk about how important their faith is right before they step on your neck as they climb their way to success. They say that they read the same Bible and worship the same God as the rest of us, but their life seems devoid of even the most basic principles of our faith. 

People like that always find a way to tune out the criticism of the religious community. Instead of engaging in meaningful discourse about teachings of our faith, they quote chapter and verse as a way of shutting down the conversation. They manage to shroud their self-interested agenda in a thin veneer of divine justification, appealing to the persistence of the powers of this world as a sign that God is on their side. And they are the ones with whom Jesus chooses to dine. 

Two thousand years later, we’re so accustomed to Jesus’ hostility toward the Pharisees and his embrace of tax collectors and sinners that we forget how good and righteous the Pharisees were and how terrible and wicked were the tax collectors and sinners. Tax collectors were no better than thieves. They made their living collecting revenue for the occupying empire. They contracted with government officials, agreeing to pay the expected tax revenue up front and then using the authority of the government to threaten and extort their own people until they not only collected what was due but also enough to turn a profit. And the Pharisees were the faithful Jewish people who denounced that behavior and the tyranny of Rome that it represented. 

It’s hard to come up with a contemporary analogy that conveys the level of betrayal of God and God’s people that the tax collectors represented in first-century Palestine, but, whatever example of social, moral, and ancestral infidelity you can come up with, those are the people Jesus is having dinner with at the start of today’s gospel lesson. Whoever they are in today’s world, they are the very last people you would ever want to break bread with, and our savior’s decision to eat with them should be as controversial for church-goers like us as it was for the Pharisees back then.

The parable of the prodigal son, as it is often called, is not told to those who have lost their place in society—to those who yearn for a seat at God’s table—it is told to those who are not comfortable with the people whom God has invited to have a seat. How we hear this story depends on who we are. What do you need to hear Jesus saying today? With which of the two brothers do you identify more closely? Are you the sort who is still waiting for the father to come and wrap his arms around you in a loving embrace, celebrating your return? Then hear Jesus say without equivocation that you belong here—that you are welcome at God’s table and are a part of God’s family. But, if you are more like the older brother and you feel the cortisol rushing through your body when you see who it is that Jesus welcomes to his table, then ask Jesus for the grace to see what he sees in those whom you find hardest to love. 

Although I suspect that our congregation is more likely full of Pharisees than tax collectors—of older brothers than prodigal sons—I think there is a little bit of both in all of us. In the parable, the younger son dishonors his father, effectively selling his relationship with his family for his share of the estate. But, when he comes to his senses, he is still able to trust that his father will be merciful enough to accept him back, not as a son but as a hired hand. The older son dutifully honors his father every day of his life, effectively exchanging his own desires for his loyalty to his family. But, when his wayward brother returns, he is unable to accept his father’s forgiveness and mercy. There is no room in the heart of the older son for grace and undeserved love. It seems that neither son really knew who his father was.

No matter what side of the parable we find ourselves on, Jesus is beckoning us to sit down at the table with those from the other side. To those who feel unworthy of anything more than a place in the servants’ quarters, Jesus says, “Come and sit with me. Tonight, we share a feast to celebrate your place in the family of God.” To those who feel resentment toward the ones whom God would welcome with open arms, Jesus says, “Come and sit with me. Tonight, we share a feast to celebrate your place in the family of God.” The invitation is the same for all of us. No matter who we are, we belong at God’s table, and so does everyone else. When we refuse to accept that invitation, whether it’s because we feel unworthy or because we resent the unworthiness of others, we dishonor the one who invites us—we dishonor the generosity of God.

In a world that is divided by good and bad, holy and unholy, faithful and hypocrite, Jesus comes to abolish those divisions by welcoming everyone to his table. That means you, and it also means those whose faithlessness and hypocrisy you resent the most. The prodigal within us does not believe that we could ever be worthy of a place in the heart of God, but it is not our worthiness that matters. God’s love is what welcomes us there. The Pharisee within us tends to believe that, when the whole world takes God’s love as seriously as we do, God’s reign will be complete, and that means that those who don’t are standing in God’s way. But nothing can stand in the way of God’s love because God’s love belongs to everyone. Jesus shows us that God’s reign cannot be complete until they belong, too.

Our belonging—our belovedness—comes not from within us but from God. It is not a measure of who we are or what we believe or how we behave. No matter how good or bad, holy or unholy, faithful or hypocritical we are, we have a place in God’s reign—at God’s table—purely because of God’s infinite grace, acceptance, and love. And that means that the possibility of unity among us—even with those most different from us—is not a product of our intention or effort but of God’s love. That is the message of the parable. That is the message of Jesus. Our job is to accept the gracious invitation that God has given to us and to all people and to let that invitation shape us together into a people worthy of a place in God’s heart.

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]

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

2. Ibid.