Tag Archives: Jesus

Feb 02 2025
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Be Still to See, Be Still to Shine

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

February 2, 2025: The Feast of the Presentation/Candlemas

Happy Candlemas, friends! 

Chances are, you’ve rarely if ever celebrated Candlemas before, because Candlemas rarely falls on a Sunday.  It is the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord, which occurs 40 days after the birth of Jesus.  In the Jewish tradition, 40 days after giving birth, the mother would perform purification rites, and 33 days after circumcision a child would be presented to God with sacrifices at the Temple. Mary and Joseph offered two turtle doves, which was the gift a family of little means would offer.   

I used to work with a priest who really geeked out over Candlemas.  So I’m familiar with a few obscure facts.  For instance: Candlemas occurs on what some would call a “cross-quarter day.”  Cross quarter days are the four days that fall midway between the solstices and equinoxes.  So today we are right in the middle of the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox.  The days are getting longer, and I even noticed a few trees in my neighborhood beginning to bud.  We are officially coming out of winter.   

Candlemas is a time when we celebrate this growing light by blessing candles used in worship and at home.  I love candles.  Not the heavily scented kind—just plain old candles that cast the most beautiful light—a light that is gentle, but dangerous if left untended… a light that can be passed on and shared without being diminished… a light that moves and dances like a living creature.  When I think of the light of Christ, the light in each and every one of you, I don’t think of headlights or flashlights or ceiling lights or flood lights… I think of candlelight.  I think of that warm glow and how mesmerizing it can be.  Your light inspires me, and I thank God for it daily. 

The story we remember every Candlemas, is the story of Simeon and Anna, and what they see in Jesus.   

Simeon and Anna are both quite old.  Anna is an 84-year old widow who practically lives at the Temple and Simeon proclaims he can finally die having seen the Savior of the world in Jesus.  Simeon and Anna are nearing the end of their lives, but that does not stop them from seeing and proclaiming new life.   

And how did they see this new life in a little 6-week old baby?  If you have spent much time around babies, you know that 6-weeks is about the time they start to light up and respond with recognition and wonder.  It is a magical time.  So of course anyone who encountered Mary and Joseph with 6-week old Jesus might have been smitten with the child.  But Simeon and Anna are more than just smitten.   

They saw something in Jesus that could only be seen through the eyes of prayer, faith, hope and discernment.  They did not just see the child before them—they did not just see the reality before them—they saw the hope of what was to come in the very presence of God. 

I wonder, how can we have eyes like Anna and Simeon?  How can we see beyond the thing right in front of us grabbing our attention and see not just the now, but imagine and have faith in the promise that is to be? 

Simeon was guided by the Spirit.  How do we open ourselves up to that same guidance?  Anna worshipped and fasted and prayed at all hours of the day and night.  How can we practice that same posture of listening and intimacy with God in our time? 

Well, there are a lot of things we can do… we can show up to church to marinate in the community of faith, as you are doing this morning.  We can study the Bible, on our own or with one of our multiple Bible studies.  We can pray the daily office, either by opening up our prayer books or opening one of several Morning Prayer apps.  So much good can come from worshipping, studying, and serving together. 

But there’s one key ingredient for any of this study or prayer or worship to really sink in. And it is perhaps the hardest ingredient to come by because it’s nothing you can do.  In fact, it is the absence of doing.  It is to become still—it is to sit in silence.   

I know this can be especially hard to do when it feels like the world is falling apart.  I have heard so many stories this week of people losing their jobs, or people losing their funding, or people losing their lives.  Our community of federal employees and federally funded non-profits are suffering so much right now, and to do nothing feels like the worst possible advice, I know. 

But to become still and listen for the wisdom of God within you is not nothing.   

I’ll give you a contemporary example.  One of the most successful activists in recent memory is the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Did you know that King had a rule of life—both for himself and for anyone who would join him in the work of non-violent protests?  As a follower of Jesus, King’s rule of life was shaped by his faith to sustain his faith.  It was a rule of 8 steps: 

  • Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus. 
  • Remember always that the nonviolent movement seeks justice and reconciliation, not victory. 
  • Walk and talk in the manner of love, for God is love. 
  • Pray daily to be used by God in order that all might be free. 
  • Observe with both friend and foe the ordinary rules of courtesy. 
  • Seek to perform regular service for others and the world. 
  • Refrain from violence of fist, tongue, or heart. 
  • Strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health. 

It’s a pretty comprehensive list, right?  I have kept this rule of life visible on my desk for a decade of ministry because I need these reminders as a spiritual leader in the Christian faith. 

But did you catch that first step?  Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus. Meditate daily. Another word for meditation we often use in the Christian tradition is contemplative prayer. This prayer form is one of stillness and quiet.  And I don’t really mean stillness of body, though that is often helpful—but stillness of mind.   

It sounds impossible, right?  To still one’s mind in this fast-paced life with a non-stop news cycle and constant connectivity?   

Friends, I could teach a whole class on this… not because I’m an expert, but because I’m so well versed in trying and failing and trying again. 

But we do not have time for a whole class, so I will offer you two small practices instead. 

One is for Sunday mornings.  When you enter this space for worship on Sundays, greet the people around you—that’s important.  You need to see the face of Christ in your neighbor.  But then sit or kneel and get quiet for a moment.  Close your eyes and say to yourself and to God: I am here.  I am here.  And then open your eyes and be here, with God, be present to this moment and this place and this worship we share. 

Another is for every other day of the week.  Think of a time of day when you can take a 5-minute break to be still with God.  You don’t need your Bible, you don’t need your prayer book, you just need to gather your heart up in the heart of God by setting a timer for 5-minutes and sitting still.  You have to set a timer because at first 5-minutes will feel like an eternity.  At which point you’ll realize just how rarely we allow ourselves to become still. 

I’m asking you to do this, not because meditation is good for your health (it is) or because contemplative prayer helps with both ADHD and emotional regulation (it does) … but because I want us to have eyes like Simeon and Anna.  I want this church to be able to trust the Spirit’s guidance as Simeon did, or to be able to speak up from a place of discernment, as Anna did.   

This church and this world need your prayer.  This church and this world need your stillness so that you can stand firm in the changelessness of God as everything around us seems to spin, spin, spin.   

May you find time this week to be still with God, and may that stillness help the light of Christ in you, burn bright like a flame.  Don’t let anyone [blow] it out… let it shine.  Amen. 

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Jan 19 2025
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The Variety Is Wonderful

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. 

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Jan 05 2025
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The Fourth Wiseman

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

January 5, 2025: Christmas 2, Year C, With Baptisms

Today we hear the familiar Christmas story in anticipation of Epiphany.  Today the magi that have traveled far across the dessert, following a star they believed to be a sign of a newborn king, today they find the child named Jesus. 

And how many wisemen greet Jesus this day? 

Our Gospel text does not say.   

Our tradition tells us three wisemen arrived, and the nativity scenes we bring out in Advent would seem to profess the same, but nowhere in the Bible is a number specified. 

About ten years ago, Jay and I were in Puerto Rico shortly after Christmas. Because I had spent a lot of time in Spanish speaking countries, I knew that Epiphany was quite the celebration.  I remember visiting friends in Argentina one year and being shocked to find people at the mall lined up to have their picture taken—not with Santa—but with the three kings!  Well in Puerto Rico, Jay and I kept coming across various depictions of wisemen… only they were traveling in a group of four rather than three.  That is when we learned the story of Artaban, the fourth wiseman. 

Legend has it that Artaban was on his way to meet the other three wisemen so they could make the difficult and dangerous trek across the dessert together, but he encountered an old man near death who needed care.  So, Artaban stopped, sold one of three pearls he was bringing to Jesus, and used the money to provide for the man in need.  When Artaban finally arrived in Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph had already fled to Egypt to protect Jesus from Herrod’s decree that children be killed.  Artaban sold another of the pearls meant for Jesus to save a child Herrod would have killed.  Artaban continued searching for the Christ child for years and years, hearing stories of this Jesus who healed people, but always too late to meet the king he searched for.  One day, on his way to Jerusalem, Artaban sold the final pearl to save a young woman from slavery.  And then, at last, Artaban meets Jesus at the foot of the cross.  As both men near death, Artaban laments that he is too late to serve this king, and that he has nothing to offer Jesus.  But Jesus tells Artaban that when he served the old man at the start of his journey, or saved the young child, or delivered the woman from slavery, he was indeed serving Christ: “Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto me.”   

Now perhaps only the last line of that story is biblical, for we have heard Jesus say these same words elsewhere in Matthew’s gospel. 

But there is something to be learned from this legend: Everyone’s journey to seek Jesus looks different.  There is no one way to discover the Christ child.  Your journey may start at a young age, or it may start later in life.  Your journey may be with companions, or parts of it may be in solitude.  Your path might be pretty direct with few deviations, or it might be a winding and unpredictable path.   

No matter who you are, or what path you take, it is never too late to discover Jesus.  It is never too late to follow Jesus. 

And, if you are like Artaban, you may discover Jesus again and again!  If you are seeking and serving Christ in all persons, as our Baptismal covenant requires us to do, you will discover Jesus in the people you serve: whether it be passing the peace right here at church, dropping off a meal, driving someone to an appointment, teaching children in Sunday school, inviting a new face out for coffee, volunteering at the winter shelter, or asking the clerk at the grocery store how their day has been… you will see the face of Jesus every time you open your heart up to another person—another pilgrim on the path—another wise child of God. 

Today, we get to celebrate the journeys of four people being baptized into this community of faith: Brett, Ava, Evelyn and Stevie.  Each of them has their own path, and it is theirs to walk.  But today we commit to accompanying them on their journeys.  Today we commit to supporting them in their walk with Christ.  Today we commit to seeing the light of Christ in them and sharing our own light as they find their way and we find ours. 

Are we ready?  I think we’re ready.  Amen. 

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Dec 24 2024
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Real Hard Hope

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

December 24, 2025: Christmas Eve, 9pm

When I was six years old, my mother had a baby.  I was convinced the baby’s arrival would be the best day of my life.  I wanted a baby sister so badly.  I knew that this new baby sister would be the best companion, a constant outlet for me to show the world just how responsible I was. She would be adorable, and she would adore me. 

Imagine my surprise when the child finally arrived—a tiny perfect baby BOY. 

Mind you, I already had a younger brother.   

When my dad came to pick us up from school and take us to the hospital to meet this new “bundle of joy,” it was raining.  Somehow, my dad had the forethought to take pictures of our responses to the news, (this was in the day of giant Minolta cameras you had to wear on a strap around your neck—not just something you could whip out of your pocket to snap a quick reaction).  So somewhere in my boxes of keepsakes live two pictures: One of my brother, holding a frog he just caught, looking oh-so-joyful; and one of me, holding an umbrella, looking oh-so-annoyed. 

Of course, all my disappointment vanished the moment I met my baby brother.  I announced to my parents that he would be sleeping in my room.  And eventually, they acquiesced to my demands. 

Several weeks later, I saw pictures of my baby brother’s birth, taken with that same Minolta camera.  And I was horrified!  To my six-year-old eyes, it looked like a murder scene!  He was covered in blood and slime, an awful blue-tinted umbilical cord was attached to his belly, and he was crying—screaming by the looks of his squinty eyes and wide-open mouth.  What a scary mess it is to give birth! 

And this is how God chooses to come into our world.   

This mess is how God chooses to love you and me and this whole messy world. 

Our God is a God who does not shy away from the mess, but literally enters into the mess. 

Our God is a God who chooses not to squash the weak and the vulnerable, but chooses instead to become a weak and vulnerable child, nursing at his exhausted mother’s breast, in order to know-and-then-share the strength and power of love in a real and palpable and intimate way. 

Every year, the idea of Jesus’s audacious entry into this world takes my breath away.  It is simultaneously humbling and awe-inspiring to ponder, just as Mary pondered “all these things” in her heart. 

And, it gives me hope.   

Not the kind of wistful misleading hope that comes from watching Instagram reels on how to create the perfect curtains from table-cloths, or from reading the latest self-help book, or from hearing your boss’s promise that next year will be the year you finally make partner, or from any given list of new year’s resolutions. 

But the real, gritty hope of Jesus entering a messy world in a world of mess. 

The real hope of a friend loving you from afar because that’s the only option after they’ve been deployed.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

The real hope of successfully co-parenting a child you love just as much as the former partner you once loved.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

The real hope of bravely facing death after a long battle with whatever it is attacking your body.  It’s real and it’s hard. 

When real hope is born, it’s born with stretch marks and labor pains and deep groaning and careful breathing.   

Real hope doesn’t just fall in our laps, but is boldly pushed into this world with blood, sweat and tears.   

And friends, no matter what hope you are birthing into this world, because hope is always waiting to be born, you are not alone.  God is that ever-present midwife coaching you to breathe and push and breathe and push and breathe and push.   

That coaching looks different for each of us.  You might receive it through a prayer, a partner, a parent, a colleague, a teacher, a poem, a memory, an encouraging look, a hand-squeeze, a community of faith like this one right here.  You are not alone.  You are never alone. 

The same God who chose to be born in the mess of childbirth begs to be born in your mess, too.   

God longs to be with you: Immanuel, God with you, God with us. 

The birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus all point to the wild and wonderful truth that God loves you, God longs to be with you, and God will never leave you. 

Be near us, Lord Jesus; we ask thee to stay  

close by us for ever, and love us we pray.  

Bless all these dear children of God in thy tender care  

and fit us for heaven to live with thee there. 

Amen.  Merry Christmas. 

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Dec 01 2024
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Show Us Something New

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

December 1, 2024: Advent I, Year C 

Nothing says the beginning of Advent like a little apocalypse.  I really do mean that.   

Every year, at Thanksgiving, we start preparing for Advent and Christmas.  In my house this means making sure the kids’ wish lists are updated on Amazon for the sake of my in-laws who start asking in October if I have updated said lists yet.  It means washing new Christmas jammies I always give the kids on the first Sunday of Advent.  It means pulling out the Christmas decorations so Jay can make our home look appropriately festive and silly with too many inflatables.  It means playing our favorite soundtrack: A Charlie Brown Christmas. 

And it means coming to church to hear the world is coming to an end. Every. Single. Advent. 

Here’s the thing.  When Jesus says: “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves…” it is good news.  I know it doesn’t sound like good news to those of us who would like as little disruption as possible in our already full and complicated lives, but friends, this is good news. 

To the people listening to Jesus as he spoke these words, this was a message of hope!  It promised an end to oppression, marginalization and grief.  It promised a kingdom of peace instead of Roman rule.  It meant worshipping God without risk of imprisonment or death.  It meant an end to families being separated and scattered as they fled persecution.   

That is why Jesus says: “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”  Your redemption is drawing near!  Relief is coming!  The kingdom of God is near!  The end of one world is giving birth to something new, something good. 

And to us, living our full and complicated lives, it is good news, too.  Because as much as we don’t want one more disruption, one more change, one more transition to troubleshoot… I think it is possible that there’s another way—perhaps a better way—to approach life.  The end of one way of doing things could indeed give birth to something new, something good. 

This, really, is what I love about Advent.   

Advent invites us to do the opposite of what the world around us is doing—to slow down when everyone else is speeding up.  Advent invites us to stop, pause, pay attention, take stock of what is actually serving our life with Christ and one another, and what needs to end for the sake of new life. 

You may have noticed that instead of singing/saying the Gloria or a “Song of Praise,” we sang/said the Kyrie: Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. 

These are penitential words.  We are asking for mercy because Advent, like Lent, is a season of reflecting on what is getting in the way of our relationship with Jesus.  In Lent, we are preparing our hearts and our lives for resurrection.  It is intentional work to make space for the Risen Christ to change us.   

In Advent, we are preparing our hearts and our lives for incarnation—for God with skin on.  And because the season is shorter and the time is especially frenzied, we have to be that much more intentional about making space for God to be born once more.  Everybody knows that babies take up time and space—they upend our lives!  And this baby, this Christ child, this God person growing in the womb of an audacious young woman, this Jesus cannot come into our lives without upending our lives.   

So, friends, how will you prepare for the end of the world and the start of something new? 

How will you “be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down,” and how will you “be alert at all times, praying for strength.” 

Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica suggests that love is what strengthens us, and that love is what sets us apart and makes us holy.  I actually really love his prayer that the church would be “abounding” in love.  It speaks to an abundance of love, yes, but the word “abounding” sounds to me like a cup-running-over kind of love.  May you have more love than you know what to do with.  May you love one another excessively.  May your love spill over into everything you do and everyone you meet. 

Even and especially when it feels like the world is coming to an end—may you love with abandon.  Even and especially when you cannot tell up from down and you feel dizzy and disoriented by the changes you see around you, may an overabundance of love be what carries you, holds you, and keeps you steady.  Even and especially when your hearts are “weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life,” may you find the will to love 

Jesus says: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” 

Jesus is the Word incarnate, love incarnate, God with us. 

Stop.  Pay attention.  Make space for Christ to be born once again in you. 

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.  Turn our lives upside down and show us something new, something good. Amen. 

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Nov 24 2024
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God is your Home

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 11th 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. 

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Nov 10 2024
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Don’t Be A Goat

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

November 10, 2024: Feast of St. Martin & Ingathering 

When the staff looked over today’s Gospel reading in our shared study of scripture this week, one person responded: Seems a little harsh, doesn’t it?  

Yes.  This are-you-in-or-are-you-out sheep vs. goats passage does sound a little less like the Jesus we often read about—the Jesus who lays down his life to reconcile the whole world to God… not just the sheep!   

I wonder if this passage is meant to make us feel a little uncomfortable.  I wonder if this passage is Jesus’s way of saying: Wake up!  Pay attention to the people around you!  And pay attention to how you are treating them! 

There’s a saying some people in the church like to throw around—that we are called to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.  I don’t actually agree with that statement, as pithy as it sounds.  I think we are meant to proclaim the Gospel—to proclaim the Good News of a risen Christ, of redemption, and of life-altering love.  And yet, the Gospel we proclaim today is one that invites us to get uncomfortable and pay attention to that discomfort.  

Because the Good News is meant to change us.  The risen Christ calls us to rise up.  And life-altering love is meant to alter us. 

Seeking and serving Christ in all persons, as we vowed to do last week when renewing our baptismal covenant, is life-altering work.  And it is our life’s work.  It is the kind of work we have to wake up and re-commit ourselves to every day, especially on days when it feels like we absolutely cannot understand our neighbor, or family member, or pew partner, or whoever God has put in front of us that day, or whoever it is we are avoiding. 

And, when we make that choice again, and again, and again to seek and serve Christ in all persons—the choice alters us, but so does the work that follows.  The act of serving others changes us too, does it not? 

It changed Martin, the Saint we remember today and whose name Rev. Lewis Heck and the founders of this congregation chose to define this parish nearly seventy years ago. 

Martin was a soldier—forced into the military at age 15.  He became a Christian and approached life more like a monk than a soldier.  Legend has it that Martin was riding his horse one day when he saw a man on the side of the road nearly freezing to death.  Martin could have kept riding, but he stopped and cut his cloak with his sword to cover the suffering man.  He used his sword to care rather than to kill.   

Martin saw Christ in the face of a stranger shivering on the side of the road.  His act of service warmed the man in need, warmed the heart of Martin, and warms us still when we seek to do likewise. 

While sharing his cloak is the gesture we remember most about Martin, the one we depict so often in art and storytelling, there is another gesture we sometimes gloss over—and that is Martin’s reluctant willingness to serve as a bishop despite his desire to be a monk. 

One legend tells the story of Martin hiding in a barn full of geese to keep from being consecrated bishop.  Can you imagine? 

He wanted a solitary life of prayer but was instead granted a public life of service. 

Here’s what I want to say to you about this Gospel text and this legendary Saint on this Sunday, following an election, knowing some people here voted one way and some people voted another. 

First—and this message was written on my heart on Monday before I knew what Tuesday night would bring—voting does not abdicate you of your responsibility to take up the work of serving one another.  Voting is so important.  It is a responsibility I do not take lightly.  But if your candidate wins, you still have work to do.  And if your candidate does not win, you still have work to do.  We don’t elect people to do the work for us.  And we don’t back down from the work if our candidate is not elected.   

Likewise, coming to church does not abdicate you of your responsibility to take up the work of serving one another.  Showing up for worship on Sunday or turning in your pledge card—those are good and important things to do!  They make a difference!   

But that’s merely the beginning of our work—that’s the stuff that sustains our work—that’s the spark each one of us needs to light the fire in our hearts to boldly see the face of God in our neighbor. 

The goats and the sheep in today’s Gospel do not represent political parties, and they do not represent church denominations. They represent individuals.  It’s on you to seek and serve Christ in all persons.  We don’t farm that responsibility out to others with our vote or with our pledge. It isn’t work we can delegate to another—it is our work to do.  The vows we renewed last week are still our promises to keep—ours as a community of faith, yes, but ours as individuals, too.   

Secondly, whether you identify more with Martin on horseback, armed with a sword, sharing his cloak from a place of power… or if you identify more with Martin hiding in a barn of geese, reluctant to do the work you’ve been called to do, wishing you could just disappear for a bit—no matter which posture of Martin you identify with, you are God’s beloved.  God has a call for you.  God sees your gifts and God sees your discomfort and God waits patiently for you to embrace the work only you can do to serve in the way only you can serve. 

This place, this community of faith, it is a safe place to explore the call God has for you.  It is a safe place for you to be your whole self, even as you sit next to a very different whole self next to you.  It is a safe place to try on different hats and see what different kinds of service feel like.  It is a safe place to ask questions when you have no idea what a “call” is supposed to look like or feel like in the first place.  It is a safe place to love boldly, and to receive love boldly, too.  It is a safe place to just be quiet and still when you’re not quite ready to be seen or heard yet (and it smells a lot better than a barn full of geese).  It is a safe place to seek the face of God in others and let other seek the face of God in you. 

Amen. 

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Oct 27 2024
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Let Me See Again

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

October 27, 2024: Proper 25 Year B 

Today’s healing story in the Gospel of Mark is one you have heard before, though there is a chance that this particular story has blurred into some of the other stories we know of Jesus restoring sight to the blind. 

I remember as a child the story of restored sight that most stuck with me was the one where Jesus spits into the dirt to make mud and puts the mud on the eyes of the blind man.  It is a vivid depiction not only for its use of spit, but also for its use of touch.  It is earthy and tactile, and it felt like a story I could get my hands on. 

This story, the story of Bartimaeus, is memorable for other reasons.  For one, the person being healed is named.  Usually, we just hear about the unnamed girl, or the unnamed man, or the unnamed woman… people who are identified only by their ailment.  But this story names the person: Bartimaeus.   

This story is also memorable for the question Jesus asks: What do you want me to do for you? 

I love this question because I think it is one we are often too afraid to answer.  What do you want Jesus to do for you? 

It might feel selfish to respond. 

It’s so much easier to pray on behalf of someone else: a job for the friend that just got let go, successful treatment for the parent with Parkison’s, friendships for the kid who doesn’t fit in, healing for the sister with cancer—we can pray for these things again and again and again and know that Jesus never tires of our asks for someone else. 

A friend asked me this week if it was okay to pray for a certain candidate to win the election, realizing others would likely pray for a different candidate to win.  It reminded me of another person asking me years ago if it was ok to pray angry prayers about an evil person elsewhere in the world.   

Friends, let this week’s Gospel be an answer to the question: Is it okay to pray… [fill in the blank]??  Because I believe the answer is always yes.  It is always ok to pray.  It is always okay to ask Jesus for what you want, even when it feels inappropriate.   

Do you know why?  

Look at the Collect for Purity on page 4 of your leaflet—look at how that prayer begins: “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid…”   

Do you think your prayer is going to take God by surprise?  I can assure you it will not.   

God already knows the desires of your heart… the admirable ones and the ones you’d rather not name.   

But it’s not enough for God to know these things.  In order to be in relationship with God, you’ve got to name these desires and share your heart that God already sees.  That is the desire of God’s heart!  To be in relationship with you.   

Jesus asks the question of Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you,” not because Jesus can’t see the need before him.  Jesus knows Bartimaeus is blind.  He could have assumed Bartimaeus longed to see.   

But Jesus instead asks the question because that exchange—that question-and-answer—that is the stuff relationships are made of.   

Bartimaeus is not just answering a question, he’s accepting an invitation to be vulnerable, to name his need, to share the desire of his heart, and to be in relationship with Jesus.   

Are you willing to do the same?  Are you willing to throw off your cloak like Bartimaeus and come before Jesus with your own pain, fear, suffering, or need laid bare? 

I think our life with Christ might look a little different—perhaps a little more honest—if we were to imagine Jesus asking us the question every day: What do you want me to do for you?  And then answer that question honestly, no matter how fragile or embarrassing or “wrong” the answer might be.  To see that question as an invitation, and to accept the invitation by answering with the truth God already sees in your heart and mine. 

There is one more thing that struck me about this healing story—something I hadn’t noticed before: And that is the word “again.”  In the Gospel translation we read today, Bartimaeus says, “let me see again.” 

I looked up this particular verse in multiple translations, and some say “recover sight” or “regain sight” or “see again” while others say simply “to see.”  I then looked at the Greek translation, and it could go either way—let me see, or let me see again.  So, I think it’s interesting to consider the possibility, one that tradition seems to hold, that Bartimaeus was not born blind, but lost his sight sometime along the way. 

There is something about that word “again” that strikes a chord with me.  I think perhaps it is the idea that I might have to ask for the same thing again and again, not because God is deaf to my prayers, but because I’m prone to fall into the same patterns and the same blind spots again and again. “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it…” 

If that is you, too… if you are sometimes kicking yourself for what feels like a redundant prayer, know that God never tires of hearing from you.  Every prayer, every ask, no matter how selfish or imperfect or repetitive—every prayer is a “yes” to God’s invitation to be in relationship. 

So pray your prayers!  Pray with abandon!  Pray with the boldness of Bartimaeus, who didn’t just gain his sight, but gained a friend in Jesus.   

Amen. 

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Oct 20 2024
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Sing a New Song

Preached at St. Martin’s In-The-Field, Severna Park 

October 20, 2024: Episcopal Schools Sunday 

Good morning, St. Martin’s church and school—I am so grateful to worship here together as one community this morning. 

Most of you know that Jay and I have two children attending St. Martin’s school.  And since school began at the end of August, but my role here began October 1, our kids are actually more acclimated to this place I am.  I’m the one playing catch up.   

On the Friday before my first Sunday here with all of you, my daughter said to me, “I can’t wait to finally see the sanctuary on Sunday.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, “You see the sanctuary every day on your way to and from class, and you have chapel in the sanctuary on Wednesdays!” 

“That’s the chapel, Mom.  I want to see the sanctuary.” 

It’s true.  This sanctuary is also a chapel.  And a rehearsal space. And a meeting place. It is a place of worship, celebration, learning, relationship building and memory making.  Thank God for this space, and thank God for all of you who use it so creatively.  All are welcome here. 

I did not grow up in the Episcopal church, but I did grow up in an Episcopal school: All Saints Episcopal School in Lubbock, Texas.  We had chapel 5 days a week!  We prayed morning prayer Monday through Thursday and celebrated the Eucharist every Friday.  We didn’t have a sanctuary on campus, so we worshipped in the gym.   

My parents would often come on Fridays to sit in the bleachers and join our worship—just as parents here are always welcome to join our chapel services.  School became our second church, so it means a lot to me to serve a church with a school now. 

If I am honest, which I sometimes am to a fault, I must admit that I think our schools often do a better job of practicing today’s Gospel teaching than our churches do. 

Jesus says: You are the salt of the earth!   

He says: You are the light of the world! 

Notice that verb tense: You ARE.  Not: you could be if you work really hard at it, or you were once upon a time… but you ARE salt and light.  You are a gift!  You are a blessing!  Right now, just as you are, you are a gift. 

Aaaaaand… being salt and light, being a gift and a blessing… it comes with responsibility. 

This is the part I think schools do so well.  Schools teach children that they have gifts, that they are capable, that they have something to offer—and then they teach children to use those gifts, do what they can, and apply what they have learned.   

Schools teach children to try different skills or different methods.  Schools provide safe places for children to discover who they are and what their gifts are because schools teach children that we can learn from our mistakes.   

It’s easier to try something new if you know that failure is an option.  It’s easier to create something new and amazing if you know that the results might look different than you planned, and that there’s something to learn in the difference, too. 

Remember all those science fairs as a kid?  The ones where you would ask a question, form a hypothesis, come up with an experiment to test that hypothesis, and then publish the results on a giant piece of cardboard for the whole world to see… even if your hypothesis was WRONG?  Schools teach children to practice failing so they can learn and discover new things—so they can grow.   

Oh, how I wish we practiced failing as adults… or practiced failing in churches… as much as children practice failing in schools.  What would we learn?  What would we discover about ourselves, about God, about the community we have the gift and responsibility of serving? 

At the end of this service we will sing one of my favorite hymns: Earth and all stars, loud rushing planets, sing to the Lord a new song.  And the refrain makes this bold statement again and again and again: I too will praise God with a new song!   

A new song, friends.  Are we willing to sing a new song?  Are we willing to try something new?  Can we learn from our children and open ourselves up to failure for the sake of making God’s love known in this world?  

This is not just a rhetorical question.  I am genuinely curious as we get to know one another better: what are we willing to risk to proclaim the Good News of a risen Christ?  What are we willing to try in order to serve God and our neighbor, even if trying means… failing? 

I hope you’ll think and pray on this question with me, and then call me or write to me or meet with me to tell me what God might be stirring up in you and in this church. 

Because friends, you are salt.  And salt is only worth its salt if it’s salty.  You’ve got to be who you are.   

And friends, you are light.  And your light shines differently than your light, which shines differently than your light, which shines differently than my light… which is why we ALL have to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.   

It’s not enough to know you are salt or know you are light.  

You have to be what you are.   

You are a gift.  So give!  And give generously!  

You are a blessing.  So bless!  And bless broadly! 

Don’t keep your gifts and your blessings locked up in a drawer or a bank or your heart.   

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

Give it away, friends.  Sing a new song.   

Because God has done and is doing marvelous things.  And we too can praise God with a new song, if we are only willing. 

Amen. 

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Oct 06 2024
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God Delights In You

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. 

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