Becoming A Bridge

 

May 18, 2025 – Easter 5C

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

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding True Certainty

 

April 20, 2025 – Easter Day

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

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emptiness, Remembrance, Faith, Salvation

 

April 19, 2025 – The Easter Vigil, Year C

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

© 2025 Evan D. Garner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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]

______________________________________

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.

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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.

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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.