Sermon; Pentecost 2026

In her book Teaching a Stone to Talk, Annie Dillard (a prolific and award-winning author) has this to say about faith and worship:

Does anyone have the foggiest idea of what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets! Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews! For the sleeping God may awake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us to where we can never return.

Over the centuries we have diluted and tamed our faith. We have created proper liturgies for proper days in which all things are done decently and in order.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing. A standardized Lectionary provides us with a vast amount of the Bible over the course of six years, as well as keeping clergy from only choosing their favorite passages on which to preach. The Church calendar leads us not only through the life of Christ, but gives us opportunities to learn about and celebrate the lives of saints. The liturgy itself has been formed over 1900 years with roots in Judaism and early Christian practices that represent and fold us into the very real presence of God. And in that liturgy we are gathered with all the saints of God – past, present, and future – in a single moment when we all participate in the heavenly banquet. It is a powerful, awesome, and sometimes fearful thing to be a part of this.

But because we do all of this “decently and in order,” because it has become so familiar, because we know what to expect, we have maybe lost the wonder of it all. Or maybe we can't appreciate the mystery. Or maybe we overlook the fact that we are, as Dillard suggests, playing with our chemistry sets and mixing up batches of TNT completely unaware of the power in which we are meddling. Today, of all days, should wake us up to this fact. Today, of all days, we should remember that our God cannot be tamed or controlled, despite our best efforts to do so.

In the reading from Exodus, Moses is fed up with the Israelites. They have been complaining to him both night and day about not having food, not having water, only having bread, and not having meat to eat. He has been pushed so close to the breaking point that he tells God, “Just shoot me now.” And this is where today's reading comes in. It's here that God tells Moses to choose seventy elders who will receive a portion of God's Spirit that had been with Moses.

All but two of those seventy go out to the Tent of Meeting where they begin prophesying. But two, Eldad and Medad, remained in the camp. Those two didn't follow the rules. They weren't doing things “decently and in order.” This caused a certain young man to report them to Joshua who then reported them to Moses because, in their eyes, they needed to be stopped for not following the rules. They decided that it was their job to control God. But Moses knew differently. He knew that God cannot be controlled and he left the Dad brothers alone.

It was this same Spirit of God that descended on the apostles on the Day of Pentecost.

On that day, 50 days after the Resurrection, the apostles were gathered together in a room. Suddenly a rush of violent wind filled the house and tongues of fire appeared resting on each of the apostles. This was the same fire that Moses encountered in the bush, a fire that burned but did not consume. This was the same Spirit that came down on the seventy elders. Each man was then filled with the power of the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages. The crowd outside the house heard them. In amazement Parthians, Medes, Elamites, residents of Mesopotamia and Pamphyllia, Cappadocians and Egyptians all heard the message of the Good News of God in Christ proclaimed in their own language.

In this wild and chaotic event there were those, like the young man and Joshua, who tried to control God by limiting what can be done. “It's not God, it's just a bunch of rowdy men filled with wine.” I think they do this because if they allowed themselves to think this was from God then they would have to step into the mysterious, wild, and uncontrollable world of God. They would have to give up control. They would have to give up themselves. They might have been, as Annie Dillard says, drawn into a place from where they could never return. And that may have been too much for them.

This is us. For better or worse, we have more in common with the two in Exodus and those who accused the apostles of being drunk than we might care to admit. We come together. We pray. We worship. And as long as God stays quiet, everything is fine. As long as God behaves in ways we want God to behave, everything is fine. But what if, as Dillard suggests, what if the sleeping God awakens? What if the Holy Spirit comes down with fire on our heads? What if we start speaking in tongues?

Do we really know what we are praying for when we pray, “Come, Holy Spirit?” Are we really prepared for what God might do? Or, as I suspect, are we blithely playing with spiritual TNT without a clue as to what we are conjuring up or asking for?

Today is Pentecost, the day we celebrate the apostles being baptized with the power of the Holy Spirit. But if all we see in that are balloons or bows or ribbons or (in some places) cake, we are missing the point. Today is the day the apostles were burned but not consumed. Today is the day of speaking in tongues. It is the day when sons and daughters prophesy and young men have visions. It is the day when old men dream dreams. It is the day when the unexpected comes to life.

So let us pray and worship. Let us enter the kingdom of God and marvel at the beauty of holiness. Let us feast on the heavenly banquet that nourishes our bodies and souls with the very real presence of Christ. Let us rejoice in the power of the Spirit.

But let us never forget that, despite our tendency to do “all things decently and in order,” we are in fact dabbling with holy TNT. And, regardless of whether or not people accuse us of being drunk or use other ways to shut us down, let us always be ready to answer the call of the living God who will draw us completely into his presence from which we will never return.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 7A; Acts 1:6-14, John 17:1-11

Today is the Seventh Sunday of Easter, the beginning of the last week of the Season, and the Sunday after the Ascension (which always falls on the Thursday before this Sunday because that's 40 days after Easter). I recently learned that some cultures celebrate the Feast of the Ascension by eating birds (can we get a KFC in Buffalo?) or feasting on flaky puff pastries, both things that symbolize rising up. Given the choice, I'd go with puff pastries.

All that aside, the Feast of the Ascension is when we celebrate that day when Jesus was lifted up to heaven in the sight of the apostles. We get some of that celebration today as we heard the Ascension story from Luke and hear Jesus praying for his disciples as he knows his time of departure is near.

On its surface, the Ascension might be the strangest event in Christianity. Luke mentions that Jesus ascended to heaven in his gospel, and gives specific details in Acts. The Gospel of John alludes to it when Jesus says that he is returning to the Father. And later additions to Mark were made when people attached stories from the other gospels in order to give it a more harmonized and satisfactory ending than it originally had.

Pentecost, which we celebrate next week (with one service at 9:00 am, by the way), has often been called, “the birthday of the Church,” because it was on that day when the Holy Spirit descended on the apostles and baptized them with the power of the Spirit. From there the apostles began to preach and spread the good news to Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

But I contend that the arrival of the Church on earth – not its birthday, because the Church has been from the beginning – occurred on Ascension, not Pentecost. It was on Ascension when Jesus commissioned the apostles to continue his work, to be his witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. It was on Ascension when the apostles stood staring up to heaven when two angels appeared and asked, “Why are you just standing around?” And it was on Ascension when the apostles first began to live into the Catechismal duty to work, pray, and give for the spread of the kingdom of God – proving once again that Jesus and the apostles were Episcopalians.

Anyway . . .

So Ascension is the day we commemorate Jesus returning to the Father. But this Feast has more meaning than simply watching Jesus rise up to heaven and disappearing in a cloud. Ascension marks the day when followers of Christ are left to accomplish what Jesus set out to do from the beginning. This is partly why Jesus prays, “Protect them in your name so that they may be one as we are one.”

For three years Jesus taught and preached. He healed and restored. He showed what it was to live in unity with God. He lived a life of sacrificial love and service. He opened the door of peace, offering an alternative way of living that was in direct contrast to how the world asks us to live. And for doing those things he was executed.

Everything about how Jesus lived was one, long training event. He was training his disciples, and us, in how to live in unity with God and in communion with others. And when the time was right, he left this world of his own accord, leaving us to follow his example. In looking at the Ascension, we only need to change our perception of that event to see any number of ascension events in our own lives.

In February of 2004 I was in my final four months of seminary. I had been in school getting my AA, BA, and M.Div for the past seven years. One day I woke up and realized that once I graduated in June, I was going to need a job. So I contacted my bishop to find out where we went from here, and he said I was free to search for a position wherever I could find it. And that's how I ended up in Montana.

In a sense, I was in the same position as the apostles: I had been learning and growing and had been guided along a particular path. Eventually I had gotten to a point where, like the apostles, I was left to carry on without direct supervision. I was being entrusted to carry on and proclaim the faith received, just as the apostles had been entrusted to carry on and proclaim the faith received.

Another Ascension story came in the late summer of 2012. Joelene and I took our daughter to college, like thousands of other parents do every year, and like Mike and Kari will do this year. We got her settled into her dorm and then, trusting that we had done all we could to prepare her, we left her in the middle of the road as she watched us drive away. For us, we experienced Ascension from the point of view of Jesus – leaving those whom you love behind and hoping that what you taught them would be good enough to face the world.

Some people might confuse the Ascension with abandonment. It's important to know that, in the language of today, we haven't been ghosted. It's not like Jesus told us he's going out to buy milk and then never came back. On the contrary, Jesus continues to look out for our well-being. In the lead up to his departure he says he will not leave us orphaned. That he will send the Holy Spirit to be with us. And he prays for our protection.

Jesus has left us, but not orphaned us. If we have been paying attention, we have been instructed in how to live in unity with God. We have been given an example of sacrificial living. And now we have been entrusted to live as Christ taught us. We have been given the keys to the kingdom and it is now our job to carry on and proclaim the faith received.

The Ascension is a major event for the Church that doesn't get its proper recognition, maybe because it just seems a little strange to our ears. It marks the time when Jesus leaves but does not orphan. It recognizes it is now our job to carry on the mission of Christ. And it asks us to find everyday moments in our lives where we have felt like both the apostles and Jesus – times we've been left on our own and times we've had to trust those whom we have left.

May we see the Ascension not as some strange event with Jesus flying up into heaven, but as the moment God entrusts us with the carrying out and fulfilling of Christ's holy mission.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 4A; John 10:1-10

The fourth Sunday of Easter is called Good Shepherd Sunday because we get readings from John depicting Jesus as the Good Shepherd as well as the 23^rd Psalm.

The first half of Chapter 10 in John is the Good Shepherd chapter. One of the reasons Jesus describes himself as a shepherd is because that metaphor is used for God in Hebrew scriptures. Ezekiel, Isaiah, and several psalms portray God as a shepherd caring for the flock. Jesus does the same here, which adds to John's overall agenda that Jesus and the Father are one. The shepherd metaphor makes sense in a society where sheep and shepherds were prevalent. And maybe it makes sense here in Wyoming where sheep and shepherds are part of the history.

Adding to the readings that reference sheep and shepherds, our sequence hymn throughout Easter is, “Savior, like a shepherd lead us.” The blessing I use at the end of Rite Two begins, “The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great shepherd of the sheep . . .” All of these things, the readings, hymns, and blessing, point to Jesus caring for and protecting his sheep.

With all this talk about sheep, pastures, and shepherds, we might be tempted to be lulled into a sense of safety, security, and complacency. But we really need to take a look at the bigger picture.

First, remember that when looking at biblical passages, context matters. It's unfortunate that the lectionary for today's gospel only covers vv. 1-10.

Part of the problem is that by stopping at v. 10 this passage can lead itself to Christian exceptionalism. People hear, “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved,” and think that Jesus is the ONLY way to the Father. What that does is to create, possibly, a belief where we install ourselves as the gatekeeper. It then becomes us, not Jesus, who allow entry or keep people out.

A side effect of putting ourselves as the gatekeepers is the very human tendency to allow only those whom we approve to enter, while keeping those whom we dislike or disapprove on the outside.

But if we look at the wider context and expand our reading, we see that this thing about Jesus being the shepherd and gate may not be as comforting as we had originally thought.

Reading on in John we see that Jesus not only proclaims himself as the Good Shepherd, but also says, “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also.” In his original context Jesus was most likely speaking of Jews and Gentiles. This chapter follows immediately after Jesus gave sight to the blind man (who was driven out of the temple for proclaiming that Jesus was from God) and was talking with the Pharisees connected with that synagogue. So when Jesus says, “I have other sheep,” it most likely refers to Gentiles and those Jews who followed him.

But if we hold that scripture is the living word of God able to speak to people in all times and all places, then this passage also speaks to us today. Those other sheep could easily refer to non-Episcopalians, as much as I hate to admit that, and/or people of other faiths. Maybe even people of no faith.

And if we pull in Psalm 23, things really get uncomfortable. This is probably the most beloved of all the psalms. We hear it at funerals. We hear people recite it in difficult times. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul. I shall fear no evil.

But in the middle of all this peaceful assurance is this: You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me. Some translations say, “in the presence of my enemies.”

What does it mean for us that in the midst of this calming, protective, refreshing scenario, God spreads a table for us in the midst of our enemies or those who cause trouble? I don't know exactly what that means, but I do know that, if it were up to me, I'd rather not.

Jesus calling people who don't look like me, think like me, or believe like me to be part of his flock can set me on edge. Add to that the inclusion of those who trouble me at God's banquet and, well . . . this is probably why I'm not God.

Context matters. It's easy to find passages that confirm our biases. It's easy to find passages that condemn those whom we condemn. It's easy to find places in scripture that hold us up as better than others or more deserving than others or as part of God's exclusive group. But that doesn't account for the generosity or inclusive nature of God. We need to be willing to look beyond what comforts us to realize that God also challenges us to see with God's eyes, not just our own. And if that means that we share space with outsiders and eat with troublemakers, so be it.

Because after all, Jesus is the one in charge of who comes in and goes out from the gate. Not us.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 3A; Luke 24:13-35

Today, like last week, we have another well-known and beloved gospel passage – the road to Emmaus. In the post-resurrection timeline, this story takes place on Easter, giving Jesus a very full schedule if you start to think about everything he does that day. As with all resurrection stories there is a lot to ponder, so I just want to focus on a couple of things.

We have two disciples heading to Emmaus and trying to make sense of Holy Week – Jesus' betrayal, arrest, sham trial, crucifixion, death, and burial. Like we saw with Mary on Easter Day, we know that resurrection creates a fundamental change in appearance to the extent that these two disciples didn't recognize Jesus any better than Mary did at the tomb. So this unrecognizable Jesus joins them, listens to their story, and then fills in the blanks by interpreting scripture. As the conversation winds down and they approach Emmaus, Jesus walks on ahead as if he's going farther, but the disciples ask him to stay with them.

As far as I can find, and I could be wrong about this, but there are four instances/stories of people inviting God/Jesus/messengers to stay with them, or God/Jesus/messengers who intend to pass by.

First we have Abraham by the oaks of Mamre when three men/angels appeared. As you read further they are ultimately on their way to Sodom to render judgment; but when Abraham sees them he shows great hospitality by inviting them to stay for a meal.

Second we have two of those angels arriving in Sodom in the evening and meeting Lot, whereupon he invites them to spend the night at his house. They initially refuse saying they'll spend the night in the town square; but Lot is persistent, they relent, and they go with Lot to spend the night at his house.

Third is when the disciples are in a boat in the middle of a storm. Jesus comes to them walking on the water intending to pass them by. Believing he's a ghost, however, they cry out in fear and he gets into the boat with them.

And fourth is today when the resurrected Jesus intends to go on past Emmaus but the two disciples urge him to spend the night.

Granted . . . these four stories are not exactly thematically identical: the three men visiting Abraham don't intend to pass by and the disciples in the boat don't invite Jesus to join them because they are terrified. But there is a common theme of hospitality and turning aside. What I hear in these stories is that God/Jesus waits for us to invite them into our lives. God/Jesus will not force themselves on us but waits for us to welcome them in.

The corollary here is that we don't always know it's God. The angels who appeared to Lot did not present themselves as heavenly messengers and Lot only saw them as traveling strangers in need of shelter. The two disciples in today's gospel did not invite Jesus to stay with them because he was Jesus, but because it was almost evening and the stranger was in need of shelter. This aligns with Matthew 25:31-46 when Jesus tells both the righteous and unrighteous, “Whatever you did or did not do to the least of these, you did or did not do to me.”

Our invitation and hospitality doesn't wait for the arrival of the Jesus we think we know – it should be extended to all, and in that extension we will be entertaining angels or Christ unawares.

The other thing I want to address is when it was the disciples recognized Christ.

Cleopas and his companion met the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus but did not recognize him. They began a conversation about recent events and then Jesus, for lack of a better term, preached a homily beginning with Moses and all the prophets and interpreted to them the things about him in all the scriptures. Through all this they still did not recognize him. And after he vanished from their sight they said, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking?”

What got the disciples to recognize Christ? It was the act of taking, blessing, breaking, and giving bread. We see this in all four gospels when Jesus took five loaves of bread, blessed, broke, and gave to 5000 people. We see it in Matthew, Mark, and Luke when Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to the twelve disciples at the Last Super. It is in this sacrament of blessing, breaking, and giving where Christ is made known. In that moment of blessing, breaking, and giving, their eyes were opened to the presence of Christ.

The meal at Emmaus continued what Jesus did in life and ties it to the presence of the post-resurrection Christ. The meal at Emmaus began the Easter sacramental celebration in which Christ continues to be known to us in the breaking of the bread.

Here are two takeaways from today's gospel passage.

First, hospitality and invitation are important. Christ doesn't force himself on us, he both invites us to follow him and waits for us to invite him into our lives. Likewise, we are not called to force our faith on others. Instead, we should be Christ-like and invite others to join us and then allow them to invite us into their lives. And this is all done through the act of hospitality.

And second, coming to know Christ happens through BOTH Word and Sacrament. We can hear the Word through scripture and through preaching, but that's only part of it. We need the Holy Sacrament of Body and Blood to come to know Christ fully. Just like you might have an idea of who I am by reading my sermons or the Wednesday Word, you won't truly come to know me until you spend time with me. In the same way we come to know Christ more deeply in the breaking and sharing of the bread.

May we invite people to join the Body of Christ as we understand it here in this place through unconditional hospitality. And may we work to know Christ in Word and Sacrament as we join together to learn and participate in the life of Christ through the breaking of the bread.

Amen.

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.