The Rector’s Corner: Set Apart and Sent — May 6, 2026

The power of our name at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles comes in realizing that God sets us apart to be sent into the world bearing the Good News of Christ!

Dear Holy Apostles,

Instead of my normal Rector’s Corner—this week I feel called to share the sermon I preached on the Feast of the Apostles—Philip and James. As we celebrated these apostles whose feast bears (part of) the title of our church, I challenged you/me/us to not only remember our name but to embody it with our very lives. I’d love to hear your feedback. Thank you for reading.

To listen to an audio recording of it, please click here.

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

There is a line from Shakespeare that many of us know: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” And in one sense, Juliet is right. A rose does not become beautiful because we call it a rose. Its fragrance does not depend on our language. The thing itself is the thing itself.

And yet, names do matter.

Names carry memory, identity, story, and calling. When someone says our name with love, we remember we belong. When someone forgets our name, or refuses to learn it, we feel it. Because names are not just labels. They are invitations into relationship. 

And names matter for churches, too. 

Before anyone walks through our doors, hears our choir, receives communion at this altar, comes to a Bible study, a potluck, a youth event, a funeral, a baptism, or a time of fellowship, they may hear our name:

The Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles.

And before we have said anything else, our name is already preaching

Let’s break down our name for a moment.

Holy — not because we are perfect. God help us, that is not what holiness means. Holy means set apart. Consecrated. Claimed for God’s purposes.

And Apostles — not because we are impressive, not because we have it all figured out, not because we are somehow better than anyone else. Apostle means one who is sent. One entrusted with a message. One sent out with good news.

So our name is not merely decorative. It is not simply something that looks nice on a sign, a bulletin, or a website. Our name is vocational. We are Holy Apostles. We are set apart and sent.

Tonight we gather on the Feast of St. Philip and St. James, stepping into an ancient Christian practice. Churches across the globe have long celebrated patronal feast days — days connected to the saint, mystery, or holy name a community bears. These feasts help a community remember: Who are we? Whose are we? What story have we inherited? What calling has been placed in our hands?

And tonight, we remember Philip and James.

Philip, the apostle who in John’s Gospel account says to skeptical Nathanael, “Come and see” [Jesus the Messiah]. Philip, who does not have all the answers, but knows enough to invite someone else toward Jesus.

James the Less, quieter in the scriptural imagination, but no less part of the apostolic witness. James reminds us that faithfulness does not have to be flashy to be holy.

And the Gospel appointed for this feast gives us Philip in one of his most human moments.

Jesus says to the disciples, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

And then Philip says, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”

I love this from Philip because it allows to plead with God to show up in our lives, even when the Holy One has been there the whole time. 

 

Because Philip has been with Jesus. He has seen the signs. He has heard the teaching. He has walked the roads. He has watched the healings. He has shared the meals. He has been close enough to the mystery to touch it.

And still he says, “Show us.”

Show us God.

Show us clearly.

Show us plainly.

Show us enough that we can finally be satisfied.

Friends, that is not faithlessness. That is honesty.

And Jesus responds, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.”

In other words: Philip, you are not waiting for some other revelation. You are not waiting for some distant, abstract, disembodied God to appear. You have seen God in the face of love. You have seen God in mercy. You have seen God at the table. You have seen God washing feet. You have seen God drawing near to the poor, the sick, the grieving, the sinful, the frightened, and the forgotten. You have seen God in Jesus, the Christ.

And that is where our reading from Second Corinthians comes alongside the Gospel so beautifully. Paul writes, “For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord.” Then he says, “For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.”

The glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

That is what Philip is being invited to see.

That is what James bore witness to.

That is what the apostles proclaimed.

The glory of God is not found in domination, religious control, worldly success, or being right all the time. The glory of God is seen in the face of Jesus Christ — the one who reveals that God is… self-giving love. The one who shows us that the way of God is mercy, humility, courage, forgiveness, justice, and peace.

And here is the remarkable thing: the passing of Christ’s miraculous light did not originate with Philip and James. Nor the nine other faithful apostles.

Because before Philip and James preached, before Paul wrote, before churches were built, before dioceses were formed, before our parish had a name, Mary Magdalene stood in a garden and heard the risen Christ call her by name. And then she was sent.

She went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

Mary Magdalene, the apostle to the apostles, stands near the beginning of this great line of sending, this line of sharing the light of Christ.

From Mary Magdalene to Philip and James. From Philip and James to the early Church. From the early Church to the desert mothers and fathers, who went into the wilderness not to escape the world, but to learn how to love God and the world more truthfully. From them to the reformers, prophets, teachers, martyrs, mystics, matriarchs, and patriarchs of the faith.

From generation to generation, ordinary and extraordinary people have been set apart and sent.

Sent to preach, pray, build, heal, challenge unjust powers, teach children, preserve the faith, and reform it!

And eventually, by the grace of God, that apostolic succession, that connection the literal laying on of hands passing along the light and energy of Christ through the ages, eventually that holy line made its way here. To Alabama. To this diocese.

Through lay leaders, bishops, priests and deacons who carried the Gospel in this place — imperfectly, surely, because every generation carries both grace and sin, courage and blindness. And yet, the light kept shining through those who founded this diocese.

Through our bishops from the first Nicholas Cobbs to Bill Stough and Henry Parsley, and even now to Glenda Curry and soon enough Richard Lawson.

Through faithful people whose names will never be printed on the Church’s calendar of feast days, but whose trust in God still echoes in parishes, camp cabins, altar guild sacristies, choir rooms, vestry minutes, baptismal records, and lives changed by grace.

And, in God’s good timing, that apostolic line made it’s way here through Maggie Taylor, the founding rector of Holy Apostles, and through those first members who dreamed and prayed and worked and risked and gave so that this parish could become a living community.

They, too, were set apart and sent. Not to create a monument. Not to preserve a religious club. Not to build something frozen in time. They were sent with good news. And now, beloved, so are you, so am I, so are we.

That is the heart of this feast.

Tonight is not only about looking backward with gratitude, though we should do that. We give thanks for Philip and James, Mary Magdalene, and all the saints and souls who came before us.

But we do not remember them simply so that we can admire them. We remember them so that we may join them. The apostolic faith is not a museum exhibit. It is a living fire.

And as Paul says, “Since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” We do not lose heart. That line feels important right now—because there are plenty of reasons to lose heart.

There is hurt in the world. There is loneliness in the world. There is war in the world. There are children who do not feel safe. There are adults who are exhausted. There are families carrying grief. There are people wondering if the Church has anything life-giving to offer anymore. There are people who have been wounded by religion. There are people desperate for belonging. There are people who cannot imagine that God’s love could include them.

And into that world, God sends apostles. Not just the famous ones.

Not just the ordained ones. Not just the ones with feast days. You. Me. Us. The Church of the Holy Apostles.

Set apart and sent.

And our work, our care, and our delight is to discern where God is sending us now with good news, which puts so many good and fruitful questions before us:

Where is God sending Holy Apostles with good news?

Where is God sending you?

To whom are we being sent?

What wounds are we being invited to tend?

What loneliness are we being invited to notice?

What mercy are we being invited to practice?

What truth are we being invited to speak?

What tables are we being invited to set?

What doors are we being invited to open?

The prophet Isaiah gives us an image for this discernment:

“When you turn to the right or when you turn to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’”

This is the way; walk in it.

That is such a tender image of God’s guidance.

Not always a thunderclap.

Not always a detailed five-year strategic plan descending from heaven.

Sometimes it is a word behind us.

Sometimes it is a quiet nudge.

Sometimes it is a holy restlessness.

Sometimes it is a need we cannot unsee.

Sometimes it is a person whose story breaks our hearts open.

Sometimes it is the Spirit saying, “This is the way. Walk in it.”

And the psalm gives us the prayer we need if we are going to walk that way:

“Teach me, O Lord.”

“Give me understanding.”

“Incline my heart.”

“Turn my eyes.”

“Give me life in your ways.”

That is apostolic prayer.

Not “Lord, make us impressive.”

Not “Lord, preserve everything exactly as it has always been.”

But: Teach us. Give us understanding. Incline our hearts. Turn our eyes. Give us life.

Make us the people you are sending us to be.

Holy Apostles, our name is not an accident.

It is a gift.

It is a memory.

It is a calling.

We are holy — set apart for God’s purposes. We are apostles — sent with good news. And we stand in a long line of witnesses: from Mary Magdalene, Philip, and James, all the way to Maggie Taylor, the founding members of this parish, and countless saints in between.

They were set apart and sent with good news for us. Now it is our care and our delight to discern where God is sending us with good news for a hurting world. So may we listen for the voice behind us saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”

May the light of God shine in our hearts.

May we see the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

May we listen with expectant hearts for the movement of the Holy Spirit.

And may we, the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles, remember our name — and embody it with our very lives. Amen.