Sermon; Easter 2A; John 20:19-31

I was telling someone last week that I will have been ordained for 22 years this year, and this Second Sunday of Easter will be the 22^nd time I've preached on this passage because we always get the story of Thomas on this Sunday.

This is one of the best known gospel stories. On the evening of Easter Day a bunch of unnamed disciples have gathered together in a house behind locked doors. Thomas isn't with them that night because he had been out at the bank all day filling out the new signatory paperwork to get Judas' name off the account. While those disciples are gathered together, Jesus suddenly appears. From there the disciples tell Thomas what he missed, he won't believe it, and then Jesus appears again a week later and tells Thomas to put his fingers in the nail wounds and his hand in the spear wound.

Twenty-two years I've preached on this passage and, for most of you here, you've heard sermons on this passage for more than 22 years. You may have heard sermons admonishing you to not be a Doubting Thomas and believe. Maybe you've heard sermons saying Thomas gets a bad rap and that it was his doubt that brought him to a place of great faith. Maybe you've heard sermons on the dual nature of post-resurrection Jesus as being able to inhabit both the spiritual and physical realm. Or maybe you've heard sermons focusing on the Collect of the Day where we pray that we “may show forth in our lives what we profess by faith.”

So today I just want to throw out a few observations that might get you to think about this passage in a way, or ways, you maybe haven't thought of before and then feel free to talk to me afterward.

First, notice that John doesn't define or name which disciples are locked away in the house. John uses the word “disciple” or “disciples” more than any other gospel, but he only ever names seven: Andrew, Peter, Philip, Nathaniel, Thomas, and two Judases (he names eight if you include Mary Magdalene). So we don't know if those gathered in the house are the remaining ten disciples or if they include others.

Second, when Jesus appears to the disciples in that room he says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” This is John's version of the Great Commission that we have over in Matthew. Like Jesus commanded the disciples to make disciples of all nations, baptize them, and teach them to obey what Jesus has commanded, here in John he sends the disciples as he has been sent.

In the Gospel of John Jesus makes clear that he was sent to do the will of the Father. Over and over again Jesus makes clear that he and the Father are unified in purpose. It follows that if Jesus is sending the disciples out as he was sent, then we are sent with the same purpose and with the same obedience that Jesus had. This means, among other things, that we don't pursue our will, but the will of God and Christ. THY will be done.

As a side note, I read something last week that went along the lines of this: Most people in church don't want to follow Christ – they want a Christ who follows them in their biases, desires, and fears.

And third, John never uses the word apostle or apostles, only disciple or disciples. In the other three gospels there's a clear distinction between disciples and apostles: disciples are anyone who follows Jesus; whereas apostles refer specifically to the twelve who are sent out on specific missionary activities. We can make the leap then that, unlike in Matthew where the original mission/commission was given to the eleven, Jesus' sending of the disciples in John refers to ALL disciples – those gathered, those dispersed, those then, and those now. As the Father sent Jesus, so now we are being sent.

To recap:

1) The disciples in the house behind locked doors could be any number of disciples besides the eleven we normally think of. What this means for us is that, as disciples of Christ, there may come a time when we are afraid of what is happening in the world around us and we might prefer to hide out in a room somewhere. This story reminds us that, no matter the times, Jesus will be with us.

2) We are disciples of Christ. Therefore we have been sent out into the world just as the Father has sent Jesus. We are to follow that commandment with love and in obedience to serve the will of the Father, not of us.

3) John apparently doesn't make a distinction between an apostle and a disciple. We cannot, therefore, claim that we have not been sent because we are not apostles. We can't hide behind semantic distinctions. So if there is no distinction, we are all sent to proclaim the Good News of God in Christ.

Doubt is an okay thing. Living our lives in ways that match the faith we profess is an important thing. Not having all the answers is an okay thing. Facing our fears is important. Living our lives in ways of love and obedience is important. And knowing that we are all called to proclaim the Gospel is important.

In the end, today's gospel passage speaks to us no matter where we are on our journey. And isn't that what scripture is supposed to do?

Amen.

Sermon; Easter Day 2026; John 20:1-18

We can't always trust our eyes.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw the stone had been removed.

It's been said that the only things certain in this world are death and taxes. We can probably also add that dead people don't up and leave their tombs. So it must be that someone, or someones, took the body of Jesus out of the tomb and hid it. That's what Mary's eyes tell here – an empty tomb must mean the body was taken away.

After telling Peter and the other disciple, she goes back to the tomb. Who knows? Maybe the grave robbers will bring him back. At the tomb she meets two angels, and then she meets Jesus. All three of them, the angels and Jesus, ask her why she's weeping. The question is honest. The angels and Jesus understand the scope of the story. They understand that in a garden, life was created. And now, in a garden, life is resurrected. They understand that through Christ, death has been defeated. They understand all this; but as yet, Mary does not, so she weeps.

As a disciple, Mary heard Jesus teach about sacrifice, death, and life. She heard Jesus talk about being lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. She heard Jesus talk about he and the Father being one and preparing a place for his followers. She heard all this, and more, but hearing and seeing can sometimes be two different things.

So Mary cries at the loss of her friend and teacher, and she cries over the audacious cruelty of someone who would steal away the body of Jesus. She cries because, as of yet, she has not made the connection between what she has been told and what she sees.

And then, while trying to hide her tears and with her back to Jesus, she hears his voice. She hears the voice of the one who raised Jairus' daughter, a widow's son, and Lazarus from the dead. She hears the voice of the one who healed the blind, the deaf, and the leprous. She hears the voice of the one who fed 5000 people and who said, “Do not be afraid.” In the morning silence of the the garden, like Elijah in the sheer silence of the mountain, she hears the voice of God: Mary.

Mary hears the voice of God in a way her eyes couldn't comprehend.

She hears the voice calling her through the silence. She hears the voice that calls us through our grief. She hears the voice that calls us over the tumult of life's wild, restless seas. She hears the voice that cut through her despair to open her eyes to the promised hope of resurrection. She hears the voice that turns her deep sorrow into deep joy.

We can't always trust our eyes, but we can trust the voice that calls us into a new life. We need to look not only with our eyes, but listen with our ears and look with our heart.

On this Day of Resurrection, what do you see? People gathered to worship. Friends and family joining together in a holy place. You see and hear hymns being sung, processions made, and lessons read. You may see or smell the faint haze of incense hanging in the air from the first service. You see people greet each other in the name of the risen Christ, and you will see the priest perform manual acts over bread and wine in which the real presence of Christ infuses those earthly creatures to become the holy food of Body and Blood for the holy people of God.

We see all this and maybe, like Mary at the empty tomb, we can't quite trust our eyes.

But maybe, also like Mary on this Day of Resurrection, we will hear the voice of Christ. Maybe we will hear the voice of Christ speaking through Saint Paul asking us to set our minds on things heavenly. Maybe we will hear the voice of Christ speaking through Saint Peter proclaiming a vision of unity. Maybe we will feel the presence of Christ flow through us as we partake of this holy meal of the most blessed Body and Blood.

And that's the thing. This faith of ours isn't a faith of what we see, it's a faith we experience. Ours is a faith of connections. Ours is a faith of actions. It's a faith of many, small, cumulative words and interactions, visible and invisible, that gently calls your name and says you belong here. You belong with Christ.

On this Day of Resurrection you may not want to trust your eyes. On this Day of Resurrection you may wonder how a dead man walked out of a tomb. But on this Day of Resurrection I encourage you to listen for that small voice calling your name. Listen for the voice that says, “I am here with you, and I want you here with me.”

And when you hear that voice, may you, like Mary, be filled with joy and proclaim the Good News of the Resurrection.

We can't always trust our eyes, but we can always trust in the presence of Christ.

Happy Easter.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Amen.

Sermon; Maundy Thursday 2026

Sometimes we can't believe what we are seeing.

Tonight we gather as friends to share a simple meal. We share good food with good friends in a special place. But there's a heaviness to this night.

Earlier this week Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem and was hailed as King of Israel. But then Jesus talks about wheat needing to die in the ground in order to bear fruit. He talks about the arrival of “his hour.” He talks about the judgment of the world. He talks about being lifted up from the earth in order to draw all people to him.

John tells us that Jesus knew he had come from God and was going to God. We are told that he knew who was going to betray him, and yet Jesus still tenderly washed Judas' feet and shared a meal with him. We hear that Jesus is troubled in spirit and hear his words to love one another as he has loved us. And Jesus will tell the disciples, “In a little while you will no longer see me, and again in a little while you will see me.”

There's a heaviness to this night and we can't quite believe what we are seeing.

Tonight we share this meal here, and we also will share the meal of Holy Communion. That is a meal we have shared many times over the course of our lives. But tonight is different. Tonight, instead of being a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, it is the final meal of a condemned man. Tonight we know Jesus will never again share in this meal with us until he comes into the kingdom, and we will never again share in this meal until the Day of Resurrection. We can't quite believe we are seeing the service of Holy Communion for the last time.

There's a heaviness to this night and we can't quite believe what we are seeing.

After this meal here, and after the meal of Holy Communion in there, we will watch as we remove Jesus from our presence. Jesus doesn't walk out on us . . . we desert him. We force him out of our lives. We remove all symbols reminding us of him from our presence. We remove his body from the house of the Lord. We are the ones who want this place empty. And, like witnessing a traumatic event, we can't stop watching.

We watch as the pulpit and lectern are left bare. We watch as crosses and flags are removed. We watch as Communion vessels, candles, and palms are taken away. We watch as the altar is stripped bare and the consecrated elements are taken away. We watch as we remove everything of meaning from this holy space. We watch as we remove Jesus from our presence. And as we do this, we have the audacity to say, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We can't quite believe what we just saw. But believe it we must, for it wasn't Jesus or God who forsook us; it was we who forsook God. It is we who will remove God from our life.

Sometimes we just can't believe what we are seeing.

Sermon; Lent 5A; John 11:1-45

Unbind him and let him go.

Lazarus has died. He died four days ago due to some unknown illness. After he died he was wrapped in sheets of linen as was the burial custom and placed in a tomb that was then sealed with a large stone. And then Jesus shows up and commands Lazarus to come out of the tomb.

Within this story we have Jesus delaying in coming to Bethany, a typical misunderstanding between Jesus and the disciples, a discussion about resurrection, a recognition of bodily decomposition, and the recalling to life of Lazarus. But the most important part of this gospel story is Jesus saying, “Unbind him and let him go.”

Unbind him and let him go.

We are bound by many things in our lives. We bind ourselves by roles and careers. Our roles of husband, wife, mother, father, friend, bind us to living and acting certain ways. We are bound by images – either self-invented or placed on us by others. Sometimes marriages fail because one spouse, or both, binds the other spouse to unrealistic expectations, or can't change over time because they are bound to the past.

Clergy are often bound by expectations of parishioners and others. For instance, I never wore jeans to the office in my last parish because that's not how a priest was supposed to look. People who see me in a bar are surprised I'm allowed to be there. There are a variety of expectations clergy need to navigate.

A young boy died last week when he shot himself in the family bathroom. He was bound by pressures and demons that eventually drove him to take that action. His parents, sister, grandparents, and friends will be bound by the memory of this event for the rest of their lives.

At last week's BBQ we were discussing this passage and the issue of shame came up. We talked about people who use the Food Pantry for the first time and how they almost always feel ashamed to be there. Maybe they're bound by feelings of judgment or inadequacy or failure or whatever.

We get bound by a great many things which are dangerous and unhelpful.

Unbind him and let him go.

How might we help unbind people?

Maybe we start by relieving them of unrealistic expectations. Who are the people in our lives whom we've put on a pedestal, binding them to our expectations to such an extent that if they fail or don't live up to those expectations we make sure to knock them down?

Are there people in our lives bound by pressures and demons? Taking time to check in on them or help find resources can go a long way to help unbind someone. Bullying binds people in very painful ways. Recognizing that and constantly working to put an end to it can help unbind people.

Continuing to think about the Food Pantry and those people who are bound by shame, I've seen how Cindy and the volunteers work hard to treat people with dignity and respect, as if this were no different than showing up at the library to check out a book. The attitude displayed by the people working at the Pantry goes a long way to unbind people from shame.

Unbind him and let him go.

But there's another aspect to this freedom in unbinding, and that is freedom in being bound.

Jesus tells us to take his yoke upon us, for it's easy and his burden is light. Paul talks about clothing ourselves in love, which binds everything together. Hymn 370 says, “I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity,” and goes on to talk about being bound to the faith, the angels, the virtues, and God. Clergy bind themselves to the Church, Spouses bind themselves to each other.

Being bound is not always a bad thing.

For instance, binding ourselves to the Church gives us a different perspective and rhythm. The rhythm of the year moves us from expectation to joy to revelation to sacrifice to resurrection to discipleship. Each season allows us to focus on a particular aspect of our lives and how we are joined with Christ. The Church also has ways to bind us daily through Morning and Evening Prayer.

Lazarus was bound by outside forces to death and the grave. That binding rotted his body. In Christ, though, he's unbound from that and set free. It was this binding to Christ that led him to life and freedom.

There are good bindings and there are bad bindings. Let's make sure we loose the bonds of things that take us away from Christ or isolate us from others, and begin to put on that which binds us to Christ and others in love.

Amen.

Sermon; Lent 4A; John 9:1-41

There are two times a year when I prefer to use the contemporary version of the Lord's Prayer. The first is in the season of Advent when we've been saying the traditional version for so long that changing to the new shakes us up. All of a sudden we have to pay attention to the words. It's this shaking up and paying attention that becomes symbolic for an Advent season that is also designed to shake us up and make us pay attention.

The second time is now, during the season of Lent. This is a season that asks us to acknowledge our sins, repent, forgive, examine our lives and conduct, and make a right beginning. As we do that, I think it's important to say out loud, “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.”

In general, though, we don't like to talk about sin – especially our own sin. For starters, we don't like to be told that our actions, or lack of actions, are sinful. Our rugged individualism ethos and myths have seeped into our psyche to such an extent that we are more apt to say, “Who are you to tell me I'm sinning?” than do the hard work of self-examination and repentance. And if we do admit our sins, we are quick to point out either that we aren't as bad as other people, or that we are much better than other people.

I may have stolen office supplies for personal use, but at least I don't beat my spouse. Or, yes, I may sin every so often, but at least I go to church every Sunday unlike some other sinners. Besides the personal aspect, there are also some religious leaders and people who will blame certain adversities on sinful behavior. You contracted cancer because you must have sinned against God. Or maybe your parents sinned and that's why you've been afflicted with some disease. Or maybe it's because of sinful behaviors that a hurricane struck a city. Sin is often used to compare and blame.

We see this in today's gospel. From the disciples asking Jesus, “Who sinned, this man or his parents that he was born blind?” to the Pharisees labeling Jesus a sinner for not observing the sabbath to the Pharisees elevating themselves for being disciples of Moses to them claiming the blind man was born “entirely in sin.” Sin is all around us. It's used to make us feel better, and it's used to control others.

In today's gospel it's the man's blindness that takes center stage. His blindness is attributed to sin. His healing is attributed to sin. His healer is labeled a sinner. And it seems that the religious leaders preferred that he remained blind and out of the way.

His blindness allowed him to be dismissed. His blindness left him on the margins. His blindness allowed leaders to focus on things they could deal with. His blindness was a convenient excuse for leaders to ignore him, claiming nothing could be done, and allow them to focus on “normal” people. Maybe this is the real sin in this story – ignoring the needs of those who aren't like us or barring them from access to God because they are different, or treating those with special needs or who are differently abled as a drain on society.

Here's a short story. I don't remember if I was working with a parish or this was a story about a parish I heard, but it goes like this:

A parish was doing some renovations and people were griping about the cost to make parts of the building ADA accessible. Someone made the comment, “Why do we have to do this? We don't have any disabled people who attend here.”

Well . . . maybe you don't have disabled or differently abled people attending because the building shuts them out. If you want people at every level of abilities, and if you want to keep people who will eventually lose abilities, then it makes sense to ensure your building gives them access.

The gospels are full of stories where Jesus heals people. It's important to note that the purpose of those healings aren't simply to make them better; the purpose is to restore the individual to fullness of body individually and communally. From the demoniacs and lepers who were segregated and barred from full participation, to the blind and deaf who were too easily dismissed and relegated to the margins of society, the purpose of the healing was to re-include them and restore them as full members of the community.

We obviously don't have Jesus walking around today healing people. We don't have anyone who can spit in the dirt, make mud, and return someone's sight. What we DO have, though, is the ability to make our place open and accessible to those whom society normally relegates to the margins.

For instance, can we, or should we, think about ramping the chancel steps so those with walkers are able to come to the communion rail? Should we think about assigning someone ready with the wheelchair to help those with mobility issues up the long walkway to the church door? Those are just a couple of thoughts that might help certain people feel seen and included as full members of our community.

Today's gospel is full of references to, and accusations about, sin. This story reminds us that institutional behaviors designed to privilege one group of people over another are just as sinful as sins we commit individually. May we have our eyes opened to see those who have been systemically marginalized, and then may we work to include them as full members of the Body of Christ.

Amen.

Sermon; Lent 3A; John 4:5-42

Today we have stories of life-giving water. In Exodus we hear the Israelites grumbling about not having water to drink, and in the gospel we have the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. In Exodus, the people are given water gushing up from a rock that Moses struck so they can drink. In the gospel, Jesus says that the water he gives will become a spring within, gushing up to eternal life. In the first story, outside water keeps the Israelites physically alive. In the second, spiritual water bubbling up from us shows the way to eternal life.

In last week's sermon I said that eternal life isn't necessarily about an unending life in heaven, but it just might be more about a new life lived into the promise of God, one that reflects God's love onto the world, thereby changing the world. Eternal life is more about living a new life where love reigns than a heavenly happy ever after. Living into this new life is symbolized by the image of spiritual water gushing up from within.

In and through Jesus we have been given a path to eternal life. In following Christ and aligning ourselves with God we move from a life that is inwardly focused and barren to a life that is outwardly focused and fruitful. By living lives that are outwardly focused and fruitful, we are living a new life in Christ free of destructive powers where love reigns. It is in living that new life where eternal life shows up and we take one step closer to seeing God's kingdom here on earth as it is in heaven. And it is that eternal life within us that is found in the spring of water gushing up from within, and out of, us.

This image of new, eternal life and spiritual waters gushing up is shown in the encounter between Jesus and the woman at the well. They talk for a few minutes about water, both the regular kind and the water of eternal life. And then we get to an important part: Jesus asks her to bring her husband.

We find out that she's been married five times and that she is currently shacking up with a sixth guy. Jesus and the woman go on to have a discussion about the Messiah, where people will worship him, and who will worship him. After this interaction the woman returns to town and tells the people about her encounter with Jesus.

This encounter is sort of a microcosm of everything we are talking about. The woman encounters Jesus, that encounter causes spiritual waters to gush up from within her, she shares her encounter with others, and then they have an encounter with Jesus.

Through the Samaritan woman, we see that this spring of water gushing up from within us is meant to be shared. As the water that came out from the rock Moses struck was meant for all the people, the living water that gushes up from within us is meant for all people. It is meant to be offered to others and shared with those who choose to drink.

For Episcopalians, though, we don't like sharing our faith, because that sounds too much like evangelism. But sharing our faith is what we are called to do. In Matthew Jesus tells his disciples to tell and proclaim the Good News that they have heard. In Mark and Luke he tells a demoniac to tell people what God has done for him. And again in Matthew, Jesus instructs the disciples to make disciples of all nations – something you can't do if you're silent. And Acts is full of stories of people sharing the Good News.

Even with clear instructions and multiple examples, we aren't very good at doing this. Which is why in the Litany of Penitence (which we said on Ash Wednesday), we confess that we have been negligent in prayer and worship and that we have failed to commend the faith that is in us.

In all of this, notice that we are not called to convert people to Christianity or to the Episcopal Church. What we are called to do is to commend the faith that is in us. We are called to make disciples – which is different than converting people. We are called to tell people what God has done for us. And we are called to share our stories.

It is in the sharing of our stories that the living water within us gushes up. It is in the sharing of our stories that people are offered a chance to drink. It is in the sharing of our stories where the Holy Spirit can begin to work.

As we look at today's gospel, this is exactly what happens. The Samaritan woman has an encounter with Jesus. She goes back to her town and shares her story. She doesn't tell them that Jesus is the Messiah and they need to accept him as their personal Lord and Savior or they'll be damned for ever. She doesn't try to convert them. She simply shares the story of her encounter and invites them to explore with her whether or not he is the Messiah. Without saying so explicitly, she invites them to become disciples. Excluding John the Baptist, this woman becomes the first evangelist in all of the gospels.

Notice how this passage ends: “It is no longer because of what you have said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves.”

That belief comes from sharing the living water of faith that gushes up from within us. That sharing allows others to drink from the well at their own pace, rather than be drowned with water because of our enthusiasm and belief that they MUST DRINK. Sharing our stories allows people to explore Christ for themselves without pressuring them to “accept Christ as their own personal Lord and Savior.” Sharing our stories allows the Holy Spirit to work. Sharing our stories allows them to take the first steps in being outwardly focused.

Water, whether physical or spiritual, is important for our life and well-being. But we cannot force people to drink the water we offer. All we can do is share our stories, tell people how good the water is, and allow them to drink (or not) at their own pace. May we all be like the Samaritan woman in today's gospel – willing to share our story so that others will be drawn into the family of God.

Amen.

Sermon; Lent 2A; Gen. 12:1-4a, John 3:1-17

Today we have the Call of Abram and Jesus' encounter with Nicodemus, two seemingly unrelated stories.

The Call of Abram is pretty straightforward in the text we have, but there's a depth to it that you might miss, so I want to touch on this pivotal story.

Genesis 1 – 11 is what scholars refer to as pre-history. It involves stories of creation, separation, genealogies, a flood, and worldwide dispersion. In short, stories of how we came to be. At the end of Chapter 11 we are told that Abram's family settles in Haran and we learn that Sarai, his wife, is barren.

But at Chapter 12, though, there's a major shift. It's here that we get God's call and promise to Abram. God calls a barren family into something new. He calls them to leave behind old and safe ways into a new way of being, into a new way of fruitfulness and blessing. And as we heard, Abram trusted and believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.

This break between Chapters 1-11 and Chapter 12 forward isn't just a break between stories of how we got here and stories of our faith. Well, there is that . . . but this break is also giving us a theological framework for understanding that staying in old, comfortable, and safe ways is to remain unfruitful and barren; while being willing to listen to God and move into uncharted territories, although risky, is to live into the promise of God's blessing. Stay inwardly focused, safe, and barren, or become outwardly focused, willing to take risks for God, and be fruitful.

This move from inwardly focused and barren to outwardly focused and fruitful also shows up in today's gospel.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus to, I'm guessing, get more information from him. He has heard, either firsthand or through others, that Jesus is a “teacher who comes from God.” Whereupon Jesus begins his discussion about being born from above and eternal life, thoroughly confusing Nicodemus.

It's in today's gospel that we get one of the most oft-quoted passages of scripture. In fact, today's gospel passage, John 3:1-17, is often whittled down to this one verse: John 3:16 – For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life.

This verse has been used in a variety of ways – everything from signs behind goalposts to telling people if they don't believe in Jesus they'll spend eternity in hell. And everyone seems to be concerned with eternal life.

But what if our idea of eternal life is wrong? What if, by focusing on the sweet by-and-by pie-in-the-sky, we're missing what Jesus was trying to get across?

One interpreter says that “eternal life” isn't about immortality or a future in heaven, but is a metaphor for living NOW in the unending presence of God. They go on to tie eternal life to the cross.

Jesus equated his own crucifixion (being lifted up) with Moses lifting up the bronze serpent. If you recall, the wandering Israelites were being afflicted with poisonous snakes, so God gave an unlikely cure: Put a bronze serpent on a stick and anyone who looks at it in faith would be healed of their deadly bite and live.

Jesus offered his own life for the world. Through his death on the cross he has destroyed death. Through his sacrifice he opens the way to eternal life. As John wrote earlier, “For those who believe in his name, he gave power to become children of God.”

If God is love and life, then as God's children we participate in that same love and life. As another commentator says, “Eternal life isn't about an unending life in heaven – it's about a new life in Christ free of death's destructive powers where love reigns.” In other words, it's not about later, it's about a certain kind of life in Christ that we can begin living now.

It is through Jesus' willing sacrifice of everything, including life itself, that makes God's love accessible to all people. It is this self-sacrifice and his everlasting love that is the way, the truth, and the life. And it is that life in and through Christ that is eternal life.

This is where these two readings tie together. God promised Abram a new life if he trusted in the promise. God promised a new life filled with descendants if he risked leaving his old life behind. Through God's promise, Abram and Sarai left the old, safe, but barren, life for a new, riskier, and fruitful life. In other words, Abram was given eternal life through his willingness to risk.

And in the gospel, the eternal life Jesus promises is also predicated on moving on from our old, safe, but barren life into a new, riskier, and fruitful life.

New because in Christ we find new life. Riskier because living fully into God's eternal love, and reflecting that love in our world, is risky behavior. Fruitful because when we live and proclaim Christ's love, it will produce fruit worthy of the kingdom. And that ever-flowing love leads to an abundant, eternal life in Christ.

If we see eternal life in this way, we might just be one step closer to seeing God's kingdom here on earth as it is in heaven.

Amen.