This sermon was given at St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church, Washington, D.C. on March 14, 2021, Laetare Sunday. John 3.14-21 (lectionary for the day here).
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A World Unfinished, and Us Mending Nets
Sermon given at St. Augustine’s Episcopal, Washington, D.C., January 24, 2021. Lectionary readings: Jonah 3.1-5, 10; 1 Corinthians 7.29-31; Mark 1.14-20.
This has been a year turned inside out, a world turned upside-down. An Easter that felt like Lent, following a Lent that felt like forever; months of Ordinary Time that were anything but ordinary; an Advent spent wondering, in the words of C.S. Lewis, if it would be always winter and never Christmas, an Epiphany that revealed not how loved the world is but how angry.
We have lost and grieved and feared and huddled in our safe spaces, if we have safe spaces. We have lost singing and shared meals, family and friendships, time and homes and jobs and health to pandemics of virus and racism and politics – now we know what plague is like, what an uncivil war is like.
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I voted.
I voted.
I voted for people with pre-existings, I voted for the rights of women, for the protection of freedom of the press, for faith that loves all and respects the dignity of every human being.
I voted for compassion and empathy. I voted for refugees and immigrants, especially those locked up in detention centers and those separated from children and parents.
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The old world cannot hold the new
Follow,
he said,
to Matthew, who was not well-loved,
not to battle, or to debate, or to lay siege
to the powers that be,
but to dinner.
Being the Resurrection: An Easter Reflection
Just imagine.
They thought the world had ended. Everything they believed had fallen apart. The man they trusted, the man they followed, leaving their families and work behind, had died, and it was not a dignified or gentle death. They were unable to comfort him as he left. They mourned. They were afraid, hiding behind closed doors, unsure if they would be next. People gossiped. A poor man, a good man, had died, and the powers that be were ok with that. The world was dark. There were earthquakes.
This was not the plan.
And then, Sunday morning. Just imagine. A garden, blooming with flowers, shining and green, and a woman, alone, grieving, walking in that bright place, perhaps thinking how strange it was to see such beauty and feel such sadness, to be surrounded by life and growth when Jesus was dead. continue reading.
Waiting on Resurrection: A Palm Sunday Meditation
For the last few weeks, as so many of us were isolated in dorm rooms and apartments, unable to see people face to face, or hug each other, opening our windows for sunlight, checking our temperatures twice a day, praying together through closed doors in this unexpectedly austere Lenten season, a friend and fellow seminarian began to create a space – online – for prayer and meditation. Every weekday afternoon, he sets on a sunny table next to a window a couple icons, incense and recorded music – beautiful, ancient chant – and turns on Facebook Live. For half an hour, we can open our laptops or our phones and sit and watch the sunlight, study the faces of Mary and Jesus, listen to music and, for a little while, be at peace, despite our anxiety and uncertainty as this pandemic spreads around us in the world outside.
Making Space: A reflection for the Diocese of Southwestern Virginia 101st convention
As some of you may know, I grew up in a small country church in the northern Shenandoah Valley, with a view of the Blue Ridge mountains, at the edge of a cemetery where I’ll be buried one day. It is a United Church of Christ parish, and it shaped my early faith and sense of community; I’ve written a lot over the years about that church and the land and people surrounding it. My sister and I played in that cemetery, among the graves of our grandparents and great-grandparents. We sat in the pew in the back – on the right-hand side – and my mother played the organ there for 40 years. When the leaves have fallen off the trees in winter, we can see the church from the fields behind my uncle’s house, a few hills away. Generations of families have worshipped there, many of them from the farmland surrounding the church.
A Broadway Eucharist: For Good
On May 17, 2019, musicians from Radford University, Ferrum College, Mill Mountain Theatre and other talented communities of musicians in southwestern Virginia gathered for an experiment in liturgy and music. We’d rehearsed individual pieces on our own in the weeks leading up to that evening, but Friday, a couple hours before A Broadway Eucharist began, was the first time we were all together. At least for me, nerves lifted as I listened to a group of voices sing through “You Will Be Found” from Dear Evan Hansen, the blessing that would fall close to the end of the service. People showed up, curious and supportive, friends and faces we’d never seen, and at 7:30, A Broadway Eucharist began.
Sunday to Sunday: Finishing the First Week
So an entire week has passed at seminary and it feels a bit like a year, in a good way. All of the first-year students (including M.Div., M.A. and Anglican Studies folks) have started a month earlier than the rest of VTS, “nesting,” “orientating” (including figuring out the online learning system and the best way to get to the grocery store without a car), making various Hogwarts references and jumping into our first classes.
The first stretch of the journey!
Well, we’re off! One packed minivan left Roanoke on Wednesday evening to begin the journey to school. This past Sunday was my last Sunday at St. Elizabeth’s Episcopal, and Wednesday my last full day at St. John’s Episcopal.