lauren laughs

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park 

January 19, 2024: Second Sunday After Epiphany, Year C 

Sometimes when I get a really familiar Bible text, I like to look at it through an unfamiliar lens.  Usually I go to a different translation.  Sometimes I even look at several translations side by side.  If I notice that one particular word is translated three different ways, I go to the Greek text to see what I can find.  Our original Greek texts are fascinating because there is no punctuation to shape the text.  So much is left up to the imagination of the translator.  Every time we read the Holy Scriptures in this place, we are reading it through the lens of imagination. Skilled imagination, yes, but imagination all the same. 

When I looked at our passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians this week, and I came across the familiar gifts of the Spirit, I decided to read it through the lens of the Message translation.  I want to share with you how someone else imagined this sacred text: 

God’s various gifts are handed out everywhere; but they all originate in God’s Spirit. God’s various ministries are carried out everywhere; but they all originate in God’s Spirit. God’s various expressions of power are in action everywhere; but God is behind it all. Each person is given something to do that shows who God is: Everyone gets in on it, everyone benefits. All kinds of things are handed out by the Spirit, and to all kinds of people! The variety is wonderful… 

What I love about this translation is the focus on God.  God’s gifts, God’s ministries, God’s power, God’s timing… and all of it pointing to God’s abundance.  “Everyone gets in on it, everyone benefits.  All kinds of things are handed out by the Spirit, and to all kinds of people!” 

Wow, wow!   

What a refreshing message of generosity and joy. All kinds of things are handed out by the Spirit to all kinds of people!  I love the picture these words paint of a God who lavishes us with gifts—like the extravagant sewer who throws seed all over the place, even the places it’s least likely to grow.  God just never runs out of love, never runs out of gifts to give.   

And God doesn’t give everyone the same gift.  God is not Oprah shouting, “You get a car, and you get a car, and you get a car!”  No… God gives a variety of gifts.  And “the variety is wonderful.”  God loves variety.  God shows up in variety.  Variety and abundance go hand-in-hand. 

When I was a missionary in French speaking West Africa, one of my students, Alexis, exuded joy in all things.  I remember the first week I arrived, I was staying at a retreat center for a revival.  This was not the Claggett Center, mind you.  I remember finding bugs in my beans and rice and thinking, at least they are cooked!  At this precise moment Alexis sat down across from me with a huge grin and exclaimed in English: “Sister Lauren!  Enjoy your meal!” His joy spread about him like a ripple effect wherever he went. 

One day I visited Alexis at his home, a single room with a dirt floor, cement walls, a bed and a bucket.  On the wall, Alexis had a giant poster of various fruits and vegetables.  Above the cornucopia of food were the English words: “Variety is the spice of life!”  The juxtaposition of rich abundance in the simplest of homes, coupled with English words in a French speaking country—it stuck with me.  It felt like a window into the Kingdom of God.  It is obviously still emblazoned in my mind and on my heart. 

And when I read about the variety of God’s gifts, I think of that poster on that wall belonging to that student.  I think about how God’s variety can take us by surprise.  I think about how God’s idea of variety is so much broader than our minds can comprehend.  I think about the rich abundance of God scattered extravagantly in places few people would call rich.  I think about Alexis sharing his joy so eagerly, knowing that joy really belonged to God, and thus that joy would never run out. 

It’s so easy for us to be lulled into a mentality of scarcity rather than abundance.  I struggle with it every day.  The very real pressures of caring for our children, ourselves and our parents—we want the best for these people we love, and that takes so much time, energy and money.  The more I think about the size of the task, the more I feel like it’s all on my shoulders.  I think, ‘How am I going to do this?’ and I forget to let God in. 

We can have a scarcity mentality at church, too.  Every single year, we have to fund raise for our salaries, our bills, our programming and our dreams for this community.  And, as far as I can tell, every year our pledges are short of our goal.  We scale back, we ask for more, we lose sleep, and if we’re not careful, our fear of scarcity can overshadow our faith in God’s provision. 

I’m not suggesting we throw our hands up in the air, spend beyond our means, and trust God to sort it all with God’s abundance. 

But I am suggesting that we not forget God’s abundance.  I am suggesting that we lean into our faith in God’s provision.  I am suggesting that we pray fervently for God to show up in ways only God can—with a variety of gifts that take us by surprise. 

If we forget to ask God to show us the way—if we forget to spend time with God every day, praying for wisdom as we discern a way forward WITH God… not on our own, but with God!—we just might miss out on the abundance right in front of us. 

Friends, I know this might sound elementary, but if you are struggling to see the abundance of God, meditate on this scripture this week.  I don’t mean you should sit down and read this passage of scripture over and over again, though that practice is a good one.  But get out into the world and reflect on this passage.   

Go to the grocery store and notice the people around you, thinking: Each person is given something to do that shows who God is: Everyone gets in on it, everyone benefits.  

Or maybe while you’re sitting in traffic you can think: All kinds of things are handed out by the Spirit, and to all kinds of people! The variety is wonderful. 

Let these words seep into your heart and your mind.  Let them be the lens through which you see the world.  So that even when you are bombarded with messages of scarcity and fear, you will know the truth of God’s abundance.   

May you be open to the gifts God longs to bestow on you, and may you discover every day that the variety is wonderful. 

Amen. 

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park 

November 24, 2024: Proper 29, Year C: Reign of Christ 

Good morning.  And welcome to the last Sunday of the church year—the last Sunday of Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary, the last Sunday before our year begins again with the first Sunday of Advent.   

Yes, today is like New Year’s Eve for churches that follow a liturgical rhythm.  Only rather than a countdown and ball drop, we get Jesus preparing for capital punishment via death on a cross, we get a few triumphant words from John’s revelation at Patmos, and some people in the church like to call it “Reign of Christ” or “Christ the King” Sunday. 

What does all this mean, anyway? 

You may know that the feast we call “Reign of Christ” is only about 100 years old.  It is a feast that Pope Pius the 11^th introduced in 1925 in response to growing fascism and communism in Europe following WWI.  It is a feast that is meant to remind the church and the world that our loyalty is to Jesus, and that our king is the Prince of Peace, no matter who is in power.   

This concept may be a little foreign to us who do not live under monarchical rule, or it could be a little uncomfortable to us in a time when Christian Nationalism is a threat to our identity as Jesus followers. 

But I hope it will be a helpful reminder to you and to me on this day that you are a citizen of the Kingdom of God before anything else; and no matter where in the world you are, God is your home. 

Let me say that again: you are a citizen of the Kingdom of God, and God is your home. 

This, friends, is why we pray for our civic leaders in the Prayers of the People every Sunday—no matter who those leaders are or what we think about them.  Because we belong to the Kingdom of God.  And we believe Jesus when he says: the Kingdom of God is near. 

This is why the celebrant introduces the Lord’s Prayer each week proclaiming that we are “bold to say” words like: “thy kingdom come.”  Because we belong to the Kingdom of God.  And we believe Jesus when he says: the Kingdom of God is near. 

Take a look at who is the “ruler” of this Kingdom of God—the ruler is love incarnate.  The ruler is God who chooses to make Godself vulnerable (both as a baby and on the cross) for the sake of love.  The ruler is not a king with an army, riches, or worldly power—but the Prince of Peace.   

In our Gospel story today, the ruler is not the one sentencing a rabi to death, but the one willing to suffer humiliation and death in order to conquer death with something much more powerful: love.  Love! 

Not the sappy saccharine love of Hallmark cards or the soon to come Lifetime Christmas movies.  But real love—the kind of love that inspires us to sacrifice for one another. 

Love like the couple hosting 35 refugees in their home for a Thanksgiving meal—love that runs out of chairs to go around the table. 

Love like the daughter who loses a night of sleep to keep vigil with her mother drawing ever closer to God as she nears death. 

Love like the mom working late hours at her second job to ensure her children have what they need to grow up to be healthy, loving adults.   

Love like the child rushing out the door in the cold with no shoes on just to tell his dad one more time that he loves him before his car pulls out of the driveway. 

Love like the person of Jesus who frees us from our sins by dying at the hands of Pilot so that we might become a kingdom that serves God and serves Christ in one another. 

Love is powerful because it seeks to give what we have away rather than to cling to what we have as we cling to the illusion of control.  And that kind of power is heroic in its humility.  That kind of power is valiant in its vulnerability.  That kind of power is commanding in its compassion. 

It is so, so different from everything we are inclined to seek in this society we find ourselves in, amassing more knowledge, more influence, more money, more autonomy… more, more, more.  No wonder it feels like we’ll never have enough—or never be enough.   

But Jesus—Jesus the Alpha and the Omega, Jesus the beginning and the end, Jesus “who is and was and is to come,” Jesus loves you with a love that knows no beginning or end.  Jesus loves you with a love that not even death can put a stop to. 

And if you believe that truth and belong to that truth, then you will always have enough, even and especially as you give your love away. 

Let your life be ruled by love.  Let love reign supreme.  Don’t be afraid to tell people that you serve a God of love… not a social construct or political party.  You are a citizen of the Kingdom of God, and no matter where you are, God is your home. 

Preached at St. Martin’s in-the-Field, Severna Park

Ocober 6, 2024: St. Francis Sunday–and First Sunday as Rector!

Good morning, St. Martin’s! 

We made it!!!  You made it! I made it! Dan made it!  We all made it! 

I am so, so glad to be here.  And I am so, so glad that you are here, too. 

And I’m glad we are celebrating the feast of St. Francis today! 

Francis, who absolutely delighted in God and all that God has made.   

Francis, whose love of God spurred him on to serve others with the kind of selfless abandon that both inspires us and maybe makes us a little uncomfortable, too.   

We tend to romanticize Francis a bit with all of the images of him talking to birds or singing to wolves or dancing in the sunshine.  That is the side of Francis we would most like to spend some time with. 

But there is this other side of Francis we tend to gloss over, and that is his sacrificial selfless service of the most marginalized.  His choice to live a life of poverty for the sake of others. 

It is a lot easier for us to identify with Francis while cuddling on the couch with our very good dogs, or whatever it is that cats do… It’s a lot easier to identify with Francis when marveling at the beauty of creation while on the water or on a hike than it is to give all we have to the poor. 

That is why we have these seemingly ominous scripture readings on the feast of St. Francis.  Readings where Ananias, his wife Sapphira, and the rich man of the parable all die from greed.  Nothing warm and fuzzy about that. 

And yet, I think it’s true.  The way of greed is the way of death.  A greedy life is a lonely life.  It is a life of fear and scarcity, which sounds a lot like the absence of God. 

But do you know what the antidote to that greed, loneliness and fear is? 

In my experience, the antidote is exactly the kind of thing we envision Francis doing—spending time in nature, marveling at creation, serving others, and singing praise to God. 

Because friends, it’s normal to be greedy.  All of us have moments or seasons where we are scared that we don’t have enough.  Not enough money, not enough time, not enough control… have you felt that before? I know I have.   

And when we are in that space of not-enough, we cling desperately to what we do have.  We cling so tightly that we can’t open ourselves up to one another and we can’t open ourselves up to the very presence of God. 

When I get in that space, it helps me to get outside in nature and get outside myself.  It helps me to “lift my eyes to the hills” and see all the beauty that springs forth every day with no help from me.   

It helps me to feel the breeze that I cannot control and watch how the birds of the air just soar effortlessly, letting that same breeze carry them higher and higher.  It helps me to close my eyes to better listen to the sound of water lapping or crashing or gurgling or rushing or dripping.   

And it helps me to open my eyes to the very real needs and possibilities of the people around me. 

It’s like our reading from Job today, where God reminds us just how much life takes place in the wild without any help from or even noticing from us.   

God asks, “Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?” Well, no.  

“Do you observe the calving of the deer?”  Again, no.   

So much life… really, all of life springs up without our help, without our knowledge.  And for what purpose?  Because it brings God joy.  Yes, God delights in God’s creation.  God knows when the mountain goats give birth, and God celebrates it!  God observes the calving of the deer, and God rejoices in it! 

And you know what else God delights in?  YOU.  God delights in you.   

And not when you ace your test, or get that promotion, or finally have an Instagram-worthy pantry… no, God delights in you when you are the fullest expression of who God created you to be.   

God delights in you when you are messy, God delights in you when you ask for help, and God delights in you when you celebrate who you are and who your neighbor is.   

St. Martin’s–you are delightful!   

I think we delight God even more when we delight in one another.  Celebrating each other and this community we are called to be is in and of itself an act of worship because we are acknowledging God’s creativity, God’s greatness, God’s sense of humor, and God’s immense unconditional love. 

This is my prayer for you and for me and for us as we begin this chapter of life together—that you would know that God delights in you, and I do, too.  On days when we are knocking it out of the park, and on days when we are just doing our best to tread water—God delights in you, and I do too. 

And if we live into that truth, we will find ourselves delighting in one another all the more.  We will find it easier to sacrifice for one another and live generously rather than coming from a place of scarcity and fear.   

We will find it easier to do what the words of our hymn just encouraged us to do—to be instruments of peace.  We will seek to understand rather than to be understood.  We will focus on what we can offer one another—love, forgiveness, faith, hope, light, joy—knowing from our experience in this community of faith that it is in giving that we receive.  And that it is a delight to give!  My friends, that is indeed how we delight in God in one another. 

St. Martin’s, God delights in you.  Let us delight in one another!  Amen. 

Preached at the Cathedral of St. Philip, Atlanta 

May 12, 2024: Easter 7 Year B

I love the image in the first Psalm—the one where people who delight in God are like trees planted by streams of water.  It makes me think of all of you, the faithful people of the 7:45 service, one of the most steadfast groups of worshippers in all of Christendom.  

I think about how you are just as consistent as the Rite I prayers we pray together.  

The clergy person changes from week to week, as does the lectionary we preach from.  And you are of course eager to welcome new faces to this sacred space, always extending grace and hospitality.  

These are welcome changes.  These changes are like the words of our opening hymn… now the green blade riseth… love is come again like wheat that springeth green. We celebrate new life and resurrection and growth, of course.  Every week—love is come again.

And yet, I also celebrate in you, not just the green blade rising, but the strong, steady, sturdy trees planted by streams of water.  That is what you are.

I think about how you are planted, firmly, in the same seats of the same pews every week.  Truly, when I picture the beauty of this service, I picture not just your faces, but also where those faces most often sit.  Even when we worshipped outside during Covid, I can picture who would stand on this side of the cloister garden, who would stand on that side of the garden, who would stand on the steps leading up to the doors of the Cathedral.  

You are like trees planted by streams of water.  And this worship we share together, these prayers, this holy feast, the peace that we will soon pass from one pew to the next—all of this is the water that sustains us.  

Our togetherness in Jesus Christ is the very stream of water that allows us to be rooted and grounded even in the face of the constant change of our every-day lives.

Of course, at the end of this service, we do walk out the chapel doors, and then we keep walking into the outside world.  We are firmly planted here, but we are not stuck here.  We are firmly planted here, but we are not hiding here.  Jesus sends us into the world.

Our Gospel text today is a portion of what scholars call the “High Priestly Prayer.”  In its entirety, Jesus prays for himself, then for his disciples, then for the whole world.  The part that we read today is the part dedicated to the disciples—to the faithful followers of Christ.  

And Jesus prays for the protection of his followers because they are not meant to confine themselves to the safety of their own tight-knit group, no.  Jesus sends them into the world.  They do not belong to the world, and yet they are sent into the world.  Because God so loved the world.

I think this is important to remember because when we think of being “in the world but not of the world” or when we think of not belonging to the world, it can be tempting to think that the world is just some broken place we have to endure until we are reunited with Jesus in a more perfect heavenly kingdom.  If we take that stance, we can come to this sacred space and consider it a respite from the crazies outside this place.  We can consider church a place where we can put our guard down, rest a while, and then put our guard back up again in opposition to the evil world outside these walls.

But God so loved the world.  Remember?  God so loves—LOVES—the world.  

We are sent into the world, not to withstand it, but to love it.  We come to church, not to rest, but to fill up on the love of Jesus so that we may pour out that same love into the world.  We come to church, not to put our guard down for a bit, but to learn how to let down our guard and open our hearts outside this place.  We come to church, not to be surrounded by people like us, but to practice passing the peace of Christ with people we disagree with so we can extend that same peace of Christ in the world God loves so much.  

At the end of this service, we’ll say together the words of one of my favorite hymns—written by priest and poet George Herbert.  The final verse declares: Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee.  We do not confine our praises to this sacred space, we do not confine our praises to early Sunday mornings.  Seven whole days, not one in seven.  Seven whole days—days spent in the world.  Days at home, at work, at school, on planes, in shops, at appointments, on the phone.  Days in the world that we do not belong to, because we belong to God, but God so loved the world, and God sends us into the world to love it also.

You are meant to be trees.  Not little seedlings in a greenhouse.  But trees—strong, steady, and sturdy.  Trees bearing fruit.  Trees that prosper.  

You are meant to be trees.  Trees outside, where trees thrive.  Trees planted by streams of living water—by the stream, not in the stream.

May this place and these prayers and this feast nourish you, just as your presence nourishes this whole Body of Christ.  May this stream of water fill you up so that you may go forth from this place in the name of Christ ready to love this world God loves so much.

Amen.

Preached at the Cathedral of St. Philip, Atlanta

April 28, 2024: Easter 5, Year B

When I was a kid, we had a trampoline.  Back then, trampolines were not circular with a silly net surrounding them (do those nets really make a trampoline any safer?).  Instead, our trampoline was a rectangle.  It was our favorite place to hang out.

Our trampoline was tucked on the far side of the backyard where no parents could watch us from the kitchen windows.  And because the trampoline was at the end of our property line, it was surrounded on three sides by wood fencing.  

You know the kind: where the boards are all placed one after the other in vertical position to provide maximum privacy—but with three boards placed horizontally at the bottom, middle, and top to secure the structure.  These horizontal boards were crucial to our play.  We would stand on the horizontal boards half-way up to wait our turn on the trampoline… or climb to the top horizontal board for a very unsafe dismount.  It was a lot of fun.

One of the three sides of fencing backed up to our alley.  The alleys in our neighborhood were like dirt roads running behind all the back yards.  Every few houses down the alley would be a dumpster.  So really, the only reason to visit the alley was to take out the trash.  And because the opening of the dumpster was taller than my head, I rarely ventured back there.

However, our fencing along the alley was… different.  

It all started when my maternal Great-Grandmother, Dorie, told my parents about this wonderful recipe she had for concord grape jam.  To hear her describe it, this jam was the best thing in the world… and oh how she longed to make it.  But she could never get the concord grapes to grow.

My dad, who grew up on the farm, and whose mother had grown several varieties of grapes over the years, decided to grow grapes for my Great-Grandmother Dorie so that we could make her most favorite jam.  

And where did my dad plant these grapes?

In the alley.  Across from the dumpsters.  The only people who knew they were there were the folks taking out their trash.

Now, I remember my dad hanging up wire in a criss-cross pattern on the fencing for the grape vines to climb.  And I remember making the jam with my parents… boiling the grapes with their skins on, squeezing the fruit from the skins, working the fruit through the sieve to separate the meat from the seeds, then adding the skins back into the mix.  And my Great-Grandmother was right.  The concord grape jam was amazing.

But what I remember most about those concord grapes, is standing on the horizontal boards of the fence by the trampoline, reaching over the fence to grab a cluster of grapes, and then popping them one by one into my mouth on the trampoline.  Nothing in this world has ever tasted sweeter.  

The skins could get a little leathery and dusty, so we would often give them a squeeze to pop the fruit into our mouths—just the sweet juicy green meat of the grape.  And on a hot day, oh!  That warm burst of sugar in your mouth was a tiny morsel of heaven.  

I think about that sweet season of life when I hear today’s Gospel reading and Jesus’s declaration: I am the vine.

I think about how my parents used to carefully wrap the vines around the criss-cross wire in the early stages of grape growing—helping the vine to find its way along the wire that would support its growth for years to come.  I think about that delicate circular practice, wrapping the vines around and around.

It’s not unlike the circular language we read in 1 John: “Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God… Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another… God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God.”  

Can you hear it?  With every “beloved”—with every mention of God—with every word of love, it’s as if one is wrapping the vine and its branches around that which holds it up.

I think of that when I think of what it means to abide.  In some places, the vine and its branches are resting on the wire, in other places they cling to it, and in still other places they stretch to the limits trusting the support in place to bolster their reach.

We abide in God so that we can remain alive and healthy—we abide in God so that we can bear much fruit.  But to what end?  Does the fruit just stay on the vine—purely decorative?  No.  The fruit is given away.  The fruit is for sharing.  The only way anyone can know how sweet the fruit is, is to take it and eat it.  

Take.  Eat.  This is my body—this is my fruit—this is my love, given for you.  Whenever you eat it, do this in remembrance of me.

We can’t just look at the fruit, we have to taste it.  We can’t just study the fruit, we have to experience it.  We can’t just look at the good work people are doing in the world to share God’s love, we have to participate in it.  

And we don’t just cultivate gifts of compassion, leadership, wisdom, patience, and joy to experience some kind of inner peace we keep to ourselves.  We cultivate these gifts of God in us to share them—to give them away.  

You’ve got to grow so that you can give yourself away.

You know how the old saying goes: the love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay… love isn’t love until you give it away.

Abide in God—no matter where you are:  It could be someplace as extravagant as the vineyards of Bordeaux, France, or in a place as humble as my Texas alley across from the dumpsters. 

Abide in God—no matter what that looks like for you: Resting in God, clinging to God, or seeing how far you can reach while anchored to God.  

Abide in God so that you can give Godself and loveself and yourself away—knowing there is always more God, more love, more you to come.  

Amen.

Preached at Holy Innocents Episcopal School

Epiphany All-School Chapel: January 11, 2024

I am so excited to be here in this space in this season of Epiphany with all of you today.  I’m excited because communities like this—Episcopal Schools—the students, teachers, chaplains, administration, the learning, the worship, the growing… all of it has had such a profound impact on my life.  And it’s just so fun to be in this room and think about the impact this place is having on all of you and the impact you will all have on the world.

I grew up going to an Episcopal School for 10 years… from 3-yo preschool all the way up through 6^th grade.  Our chapel schedule was a little different from yours.  We had chapel every day!  Morning prayer Monday through Thursday and Holy Eucharist every Friday.  All of it in the gym, which was nowhere near this big.  

Oh, I loved that community. And I loved the prayers we prayed and the hymns we sang together—so much so, that here I am, an Episcopal Priest. Despite growing up in other churches on Sundays, in other wonderful denominations, the Episcopal liturgy of daily chapel services really took hold of my heart.  Interestingly, two other people in my grade school class became priests in the Episcopal Church as well.  That’s 10%.  I think that means the odds are pretty high that someone in this room could be a priest someday… and chances are… it’s not the person you expect.

There’s another reason I’m excited—or maybe the word is honored—to be here today.  And that’s because it’s David’s last Eucharist as a chaplain in this community.  You see, the last time David left one place to be called to another, he was leaving me to come to you!  I was so sad to be losing him as a peer, and St. Luke’s was so sad to be losing him as a priest.  But I was also so excited because I knew that God was calling him to this place, and I could see how God had been preparing him to join all of you in community.  

I have loved watching him grow alongside all of you the past 7 years.  He has been holding space for you to learn and explore.  He has been preparing you to discover the light of Christ in this place and beyond.  He has been preparing you to think for yourself and believe for yourself—because yourself is what God delights in most.  And… you have been preparing him, too.  We rarely know what we are preparing others for, and I doubt you knew you were preparing David to serve another community.  But that is what you have done, and you have done it well.  I want you to feel good about all that you have shared with David, and I want you to know that all of it travels with him in his heart to the next community he is called to serve.

But enough about David.  Let’s talk about this Gospel.

When I talked about Epiphany in the Cathedral Preschool Chapel yesterday, I focused on the star.  And I told them the truth—I told them that each and every one of them is a star.  In the same way that the star in Matthew’s Gospel points to Jesus and helps the wise wanderers find their way, each one of us, when we shine, points to God’s presence in the world.  

And how do we shine?  Do we walk around with a flashlight all the time?  No.  Do we process through our day with candles and torches?  No.  Do we cover our faces in glitter?  No.  At least not every day.  

We shine when we share God’s love.  We shine when we help one another.  We shine when we speak the truth.

And—you want to know when we shine the very most?  

When we are ourselves.  When we are the people God created us to be.

If you try to be someone else, your light might twinkle a little.  

But to really shine, you have to be the fullest expression of yourself.  

Now, I know that some of us might be trying to figure out who we are.  The older we get, the bigger that question becomes.  It’s normal.  And sometimes it’s fun to try on different things and see what fits.  But it can also be hard or exhausting.  

If that’s you, maybe this Epiphany season is less about being a star and more about being one of the wise wanderers.  Maybe this season is about looking at the vast expanse of the heavens above—wow!—and then looking inward where we feel most at home.  Maybe this season is about finding our way, asking questions, discovering new truths.  Maybe, maybe, we’ll stumble upon God being born again, because God is always waiting to be born.

Whether you are a star shining so brightly, pointing to God’s presence in this world, or whether you are wandering around in hopes of discovering something true, you are right where you need to be.  And God loves you exactly as you are.

Amen.