Ponder All These Things

Sunday, December 14, 2025

By Their Fruits

Jesus is pretty clear that it's not about lip service, it's about incarnate, embodied ministry.

This sermon was preached on Sunday, December 14^th at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may view a video of the sermon by clicking here.

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

Beloved in Christ, there is a sentence Jesus speaks in this week’s Gospel that lands differently when the world around us feels anxious and reactive. Jesus says, “You will know them by their fruits.” Not by their slogans. Not by their power. Not by how loudly they say, “Lord, Lord.” But by the fruits of their lives.

Jesus teaches this because human beings, especially religious human beings, often confuse conviction with correctness, or fear with faithfulness. And sometimes—God help us—we confuse identity with discipleship.

This past week, our own city of Hoover has been in the news. Some have spoken at public meetings expressing concern, fear, or outright opposition to the creation of a new Islamic school. I’m not here to adjudicate zoning, land use, or financial feasibility—that is not my lane—and I would be wholly out of my depths discussing proper city planning. But I am here to speak—in love—to the Christian reasoning that some have used to justify opposition. Because friends, we must be very, very careful when we invoke Jesus’ name to build walls that He Himself tore down.

Let me say this clearly: If your objection to this school is economic, or infrastructural, or traffic-based—that is civic conversation—and it is good and right to engage in weighing the pros and cons. But if your objection is that Hoover is a “Christian town” and Muslims are a “foreign religion,” that is not Christianity speaking. That is fear wearing a cross as camouflage. And I say that with compassion, because fear is a very human response.

I understand that any change can stir up anxiety. That’s human. But Jesus never let fear steer the ship. And so, Jesus calls us to something deeper. Because here is the truth: Jesus never called His followers to build an exclusive community that shuts others out; He sends us into the world, not away from it.

And Jesus envisioned His followers living among all kinds of people, not separating themselves from them. Think about His entire earthly ministry: He lived in a religiously mixed society—Jews, Samaritans, Roman polytheists, Greek philosophers, zealots, sinners, the faithful, the faithless, the seekers, the tired, the forgotten, and…

He did not fear them.

He ate with them.

He healed them.

He blessed them.

He spoke truth to them.

He received hospitality from them.

He called some of them to follow Him.

Let’s remember a few of His encounters:

• The Samaritan woman at the well—member of a rival religion. Jesus reveals to her more than to any disciple.

• The Roman centurion—a soldier of the occupying force. Jesus marvels: “I have not found such faith in all Israel.”

• The Syrophoenician woman—a mother from a foreign religion. Jesus learns from her boldness and expands His ministry.

• The parable of the Good Samaritan—the outsider is the neighbor; the religious insiders walk by.

Friends, our Lord Jesus lived his entire life as a faithful Jew, not a Christian. And He saw the faith of outsiders, the dignity of strangers, and yes—the presence of God beyond the boundaries of His own religious tradition.

And today’s Gospel—which is all about being known not by what we say but by what we do—leads us to this truth: Real faith is recognized not by correctness but by fruit. By healing. By mercy. By justice. By welcome. By courage. By love.

This is why I think about Jesus’ words in John’s Gospel, where He calls Himself the Good Shepherd. And then He says something astonishing: “I have sheep that are not of this fold.”

Jesus, the one we claim as Lord, believes that God is bigger than our boundaries. Bigger than our maps. Bigger than our categories. Bigger than our religions—even as He works within His own tradition faithfully. Even as He works in this Faith—this Tradition in which we are called Christians because we are all called to be “little Christs.” Which leads me to believe: If Jesus can imagine God’s care for people beyond His fold, surely we as His followers can make room for our Muslim neighbors to flourish. Not in spite of our Christian faith. But because of it.

Opening our hearts to our neighbors of other faiths doesn’t weaken our Christian identity—it strengthens it, because it roots us more deeply in Jesus’ own way. If a Muslim school produces children who are compassionate, curious, committed to justice…

If it teaches respect, diligence, love of neighbor…

If its graduates bless our city—then Jesus’ own standard applies: “You will know them by their fruits.”

And likewise—If we Christians in this city produce division, exclusion, suspicion, or fear—Jesus’ standard still applies: “You will know them by their fruits.”

I am not preaching at anyone here. I am preaching for us—so that the world sees the real Jesus through us. Not the Jesus of political talking points. Not the Jesus of culture wars. Not the Jesus invoked to defend territory or to justify sinful behavior that distorts our relationships with neighbor, Creation, ourselves, and God. Not any of that…

But instead, may we reveal the Jesus who moved toward the other, not away. The Jesus who crossed lines, not reinforced them. The Jesus whose courage came from love, not from fear. The Jesus whose power was shown not in dominance but in mercy. So if you ask, “How do I talk with people who use Christianity to injure those of other faiths?”

I have five steps, and if you are thinking, I’m not going to remember any of this, do not fret. I’ve made a conversation guide that you can pick up on your way out of church.

You might begin here:
1. Ask them about Jesus’ example, not their opinions. “Where in the Gospels does Jesus avoid or oppose people of other religions?”

2. Invite them into curiosity. “Have you ever met a Muslim family? Have you heard their hopes for their children?”

3. Use fruit language. “What fruit will this decision produce in our city? Fear or hospitality? Division or relationship?”

4. Remind them of the Great Commandment. It’s not “Love your neighbor if they are Christian.” It’s Love your neighbor. Full stop.

5. And remind them of the Great Commission when Jesus tells His followers to go into all nations to baptize and model everything He commanded—which always brings us back to the heart of His teaching: Love God. Love Neighbor.

The Church grows through witness, not domination. Through light breaking through the cracks—not through building thicker walls. Through invitation, not intimidation.

Beloved, I don’t know what our great city of Hoover will decide. I don’t know what the council and mayor will approve. I don’t know how everything will shake out. But I do know what kind of Christians we are called to be:

People whose faith bears fruit worthy of the One we follow.

People who walk in love, not fear.

People who embody the wideness of God’s mercy.

People who trust that Jesus meant it when He said, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called Children of God.”

And if we do that—if we become known in Hoover as a church that is curious, compassionate, humble, and brave—then we will be a signal flare in this city: a community willing to have the hard conversations, a people unafraid to stand in truth, a church striving to look, live, and be like Jesus.

And friends—that is the fruit that will last. And Christ knows, we make his Name known not only by what we say or think, but mostly by how we live, and move, and have our being.

So, beloved, what kind of fruit will we bear?

Sunday, November 30, 2025

Wake Up… It’s ADVENT!

This sermon was preached on the First Sunday of Advent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of this message may be found here (at the 13:15 mark).

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

It always surprises people when they come to church on the First Sunday of Advent expecting manger scenes and shepherds…
…and instead get Jesus talking about floods and thieves.

It’s not exactly “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” material.

But this is how the Church keeps time.
Before we get to the Christ Child, before we get to that holy night in Bethlehem, we start with Jesus saying:

“Keep awake.”

Which is to say:
“Live with awareness. Live with attention. Live with your eyes open.”

Not in fear, but in hope.

This text is not about being afraid.
It is about learning to see God — to notice God — in the present moment.

This Sunday we step out of the long companionship we’ve had with Luke — the Gospel writer who sings of universal welcome, table fellowship, God’s love for the outsider and the poor — and we step into Matthew’s world. Matthew’s Gospel has a different tone. Sharper edges. A sense of urgency. A focus on the Kingdom of Heaven breaking in.

Matthew is writing to a Jewish-Christian community who had just lost the Temple — the center of their spiritual world. Everything familiar had collapsed. And into that grief, the Jesus depicted by Matthew seemingly says, “Something new is coming. God is not finished. Stay awake.”

If Luke wants us to see God in the feast, Matthew wants us to see God in the disruption. In the unexpected. In the cracks of ordinary life. And it is exactly there that Advent meets us.

Now let’s clear up one of the biggest misunderstandings about this passage. Jesus says, “One will be taken and one left.” For the past 190 years — less than 10% of Christian History — some have used this passage to predict something called “the rapture.”

You know the idea: People vanishing into thin air, piles of clothes left behind, bumper stickers that say “In case of rapture this car will be unmanned.”

But here’s the problem: Rapture theology didn’t exist in the early Church. Not in the medieval Church. Not in the Reformation. Not in Jesus' time. Not until 1830 — when it first appeared in Scotland and was later popularized in American revivalism.

In Matthew’s context, the ones who are “taken” in the flood are those swept away in destruction. The ones left behind are the ones remaining to rebuild. Jesus is not predicting a rapture. Jesus is calling his disciples — calling us — to be spiritually awake. To be ready for where God is breaking into our lives here and now. This text is not about escaping the world. This text is about paying attention to God’s presence in the world.

There’s another phrase here that gets misunderstood: The “coming of the Son of Man.” In Greek the word doesn’t mean “arrival from far away.” It means something more akin to presence. A coming presence, a manifestation, or a revelation. A presence that is already close — becoming tangible and real to us.

In other words, the “coming” of Christ is not God swooping in from on high — as sad as that makes me because my favorite hymn, just might be “Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending.” But God is already here, suddenly perceived by us who so often overlook the holy everywhere.

So maybe, the Advent question is not “When will Christ come?” but something like: “Where is Christ already present — and have I been awake enough to recognize God?”

St. Bernard of Clairvaux, abbot, mystic, and co-founder of the Knights Templar, understood this reality, for he professed three comings of Christ:

1. The First Coming — in Bethlehem, in the flesh.

2. The Final Coming — when God makes all things new, perfects all things.

3. The Middle Coming — the one that happens every day, in every moment, in every human heart.

That middle coming is the heart of Advent. Because Christ comes to us not only in ancient history or distant future, but right here:

in the neighbor sitting beside us in the pew, and
in that other neighbor who annoys us the most,
in the beauty of creation,
in the crack of dawn breaking over a very tired world,
and yes — even within us, and sometimes precisely in the parts we’re ashamed of. The parts we hide. The parts we call our “shadow selves.”

In this season when it gets darker and darker, it's easier for us to sit in the darkness to wait for the light. Advent says: Christ comes into our shadow, too. Not to condemn it — but to heal it. To claim it. To love it into wholeness. This is the presence of Christ awakening us not from the outside but from the inside.

There is a reason the Church starts Advent not with shepherds but with wakefulness. The people of God have always needed a reminder that the world is full of distractions — full of noise — full of ways to numb ourselves from the pain, the beauty, and the reality of our lives. To lull us back to sleep.

But Jesus shocks us awake saying: “Just as a thief comes in the night…” so will God's appearing be. Now here's the point: it's not that Jesus is a thief. The point is unexpectedness. Wakefulness means being able to recognize God’s presence even when we didn’t plan for it.

To say it plainly: Advent is not about predicting God’s arrival. Advent is about seeing God’s presence here and now.

When Jesus says, “Keep awake,” he’s not telling us to be anxious or to drink a ton of Red Bulls or chug a bunch of coffee. He’s telling us to be attentive, to remain spiritually aware, looking for Christ at all times, in all places, and in everyone we meet. Because the Kingdom of Heaven isn’t some far-off reality. It is breaking in right here, right now.

Right in the middle of your life.

Every moment of forgiveness is Advent (God coming to us).
Every act of generosity is Advent.
Every quiet morning cup of coffee with gratitude is Advent.
Every time you refuse cynicism and choose compassion is Advent.
Every time you tell the truth, every time you choose hope over despair… Advent is happening.

The world is full of Advent moments. We just need the eyes to see them.

So how do we do that? How do we “keep awake” in real life?

Here are three simple, practical Advent practices for you, Holy Apostles:

1. Pay attention to interruptions.

God shows up in the things we didn’t plan:
a phone call,
a difficult conversation,
a moment of unexpected beauty,
a neighbor who needs something simple.
Interruptions are often Advent incarnations.

2. Slow down — even for five minutes.

Light a candle.
Say a prayer.
Sit in silence.
Let your heart catch up with your life.

Advent rewards slowness.

3. Look for Christ in people — all people.

Not just the lovely ones.
Not just the ones who agree with us.
Christ comes in the face of every human being — especially the ones we avoid.

These are simple practices.
But simple is how we wake up.

So here is the heart of the matter: Advent is not about fear. Advent is not about prediction. Advent is not about escaping the world. Advent is about presence. God’s presence. Christ’s presence. The Spirit’s presence. Already here. Already stirring. Already whispering, “Wake up. Pay attention. I’m right here.”

The world wants to lull us to sleep. Jesus wants to awaken us to life.

And Holy Apostles — if we live this Advent awake… if we walk through this season with eyes open… if we dare to believe that Christ is showing up in every corner of our lives — then I promise you: We will not miss him when he comes.

Because we will already have seen him — in each other, in creation, and in the hidden corners of our own hearts. And for God’s presence reality… Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Sunday, November 9, 2025

Alive To Rise

Where in life do you need God's help to rise again?

Haggai 1:15b-2:9
Psalm 145:1-5, 18-22
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17
Luke 20:27-38

This sermon was preached on the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost (November 9, 2025) at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here.

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

“He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

There are moments in scripture where someone asks Jesus a question that sounds religious but really isn’t. The inquiry that kicks off today’s Gospel is one of those moments.

A group of Sadducees—religious leaders known for their wealth, influence, and skepticism—approach Jesus with a story they’ve carefully crafted to make resurrection seem as ridiculous as possible. My friend, the Rev. Charles Youngson, likes to say, “The Sadducees were ‘Sad, you see’ because they didn’t believe in the Resurrection.” They didn’t believe in it because they were the biblical literalists of their day, accepting only the first five books of Moses as authoritative. And, those books don’t explicitly mention resurrection, so they reasoned it couldn’t possibly be true.

And if you’ve ever read this exchange, you know—it’s kind of absurd. They present Jesus with this long hypothetical: “A woman marries one brother, he dies. Then she marries the next one, he dies. Then the next, and the next, until she’s married seven brothers. In the resurrection, whose wife will she be?”

It’s not a question of faith; it’s a trap. (And yes, Star Wars fans, I can’t read this passage without hearing Admiral Ackbar shout, “It’s a trap!”) The Sadducees’ question is less theology and more theater. They’re performing their cleverness, hoping to make Jesus look foolish. Thank goodness, we never do that to one another (he says with sarcasm dripping from his words).

But Jesus doesn’t take the bait, y’all. He doesn’t argue the logic or try to outwit them. Instead, he reframes the entire conversation. He refuses to play by their categories of ownership, possession, or legal status. He says, in effect, You’re missing the point.

The resurrection isn’t about whose wife someone is—it’s about whose life we all belong to. “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage,” Jesus says, “but those who are considered worthy of that age and the resurrection… cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God.”

And then he quotes the very scripture the Sadducees claim to honor: Exodus 3:6. God says to Moses, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” Notice the verb tense here—am, not was. God is—present tense—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Which means that even though they died long ago, they still live in God.

And then Jesus delivers one of the most remarkable lines in all of Holy Scripture: “He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

Friends, that is resurrection. It’s not about biology—it’s about belonging. It’s not about life after death—it’s about life beyond fear. Resurrection means that life in God is never over, never lost, never gone. To God, all are alive.

That’s good news for those who grieve—but it’s also good news for those who live. Because if resurrection is real, then it’s not something we simply wait for—it’s something we participate in now. And on this Consecration Sunday, that’s exactly what we are doing: participating in the living work of God.

This morning, we’ll ask God’s blessing upon our 2026 pledge commitments—our Tell Out My Soul campaign. These estimates of giving aren’t just about maintaining the institution or paying the bills; they’re acts of resurrection faith.

The Greek word for resurrection literally translates “to stand up again. Resurrection is standing up again. After grief. After exhaustion. After doubt. After years when hope feels too costly or faith feels too fragile.

Every pledge, every act of generosity, every prayer for the future of this church—each is a form of rising again. A standing up again in faith. We stand up again as people of the living God, declaring that this community is vibrant. That Christ’s ministry with us is growing. That the Spirit still moves through us to bring healing, justice, compassion, and joy into a world that often feels like it’s dying of cynicism, apathy, and despair.

I think about this sanctuary—this holy space filled each week with the living presence of God and the living faith of God’s people. When a child splashes at the baptismal font or a choir anthem rises to the rafters, when bread is broken and wine is poured, when hands are held and prayers are whispered—these are not signs of a church that once was. No, you are the living, breathing Body of Christ here and now.

And our giving—our stewardship—is not a transaction. It’s an act of resurrection. It says, We believe in life. We believe in love that outlasts death. We believe in the God of the living.

The Sadducees’ mistake was assuming that death has the last word. Jesus’ answer tells us that the last word belongs to God—and God’s word is life. That truth is not abstract. It’s not only about heaven someday. It’s as close and as tangible as this moment—where we, the living, gather to commit ourselves again to the life of God in this place.

So let me offer you a question—not a trick one, but a real one: Where in your life do you need to “stand up again”? Where have fear, regret, or weariness kept you sitting down, holding back, staying small? Where do you need God’s resurrecting power to lift you up once more?

Because the God of the living invites us to rise—to trust that we are not done, that the story of Holy Apostles is not finished, that the story of your soul is not done. When we rise in generosity, in faith, in love, we proclaim resurrection in the here and now.

Years ago at my first parish, a parishioner on a fixed income confided in me, “I’m not sure my pledge will make much difference.” My response was, “You have no idea how much it will.” Because the miracle of resurrection is that even the smallest seed of faith can grow into something beautiful—much like the mustard seed Jesus spoke of earlier in Luke.

Even the smallest act of generosity can change a life. Even the faintest prayer of hope can ripple through this community and raise someone else up. That’s what the Church is meant to be: a gathering of people who stand up again and again, trusting that God’s life flows through us, through our giving, through our love.

So today, as we offer our 2026 pledges, as we tell out our souls, we do so not as people trying to prove something to God, but as people already held in the life of God. We give because we are alive. We serve because God’s Spirit breathes in us. We hope because resurrection is real.

The same God who raised Jesus from the dead raises us still—raises our courage, our compassion, our commitment—to build up the ministry of Christ Jesus in this place. We are, all of us, standing up again. And when we do, the world catches a glimpse of what resurrection looks like: not only life after death, but life before death. Not only heaven to come, but heaven breaking in—right here, right now.

“He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

That means Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are alive.
That means Mary and Elizabeth are alive.
That means the Holy Apostles and all beloveds who have gone before us—their love, their faith, their generosity—are alive.
And that means you and I are alive too.

Alive to give.
Alive to love.
Alive to rise...

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Sunday, October 26, 2025

No Concept

Dr. Bran Potter, Geology Professor at Sewanee, resplendent in light in the summer of 2006.

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here. The readings which inspired this sermon are as follows:

Joel 2:23-32
Psalm 65
2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18
Luke 18:9-14

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

Have you ever—perhaps spurred on by social media—used your phone’s autofill feature to finish a sentence? Recently, I typed: “The Book of Common Prayer…” and let AI finish it. Here’s what Siri formulated: “The Book of Common Prayer is the most comprehensive and powerful book on the topic of religious belief.” Not entirely true or elegant, but not far off!

Now, what if you were to autofill this line, not with your phone but with your mind:

“God, I thank you that I am not like other people: ________, ________, and ________.”

Who came to mind? I’ll go first.

The man who still doesn’t know there’s a turn signal on his car.
The minister more concerned with being seen at the country club than seeing those in need.
The CEO who makes hundreds of times what the average worker earns.

Thank you, God, for not making me like these brainless, hypocritical, greedy ones! I always use my turn signals, love others, and give generously. I’m so much better than these offensive people! Of course, I’m joking—but only slightly. It’s easy to fall into the Pharisee’s trap: measuring our goodness by who we’re not.

“God, I thank you that I am not like other people…” We can almost hear the smugness in his voice. Yet Jesus’ listeners wouldn’t have heard a villain. They’d have seen a model citizen—prayerful, generous, disciplined. A good churchgoer.

But something subtle gets lost in translation. The original language suggests the Pharisee “prayed toward himself.” Imagine that: standing in a house of prayer but facing toward one’s ego, as if the point of prayer were himself. It’s a haunting image—praying to himself about himself while God becomes a silent audience.

But, I’ll raise my hand and state that sometimes my prayers are all about me—what I want, what I need God to do, instead of listening to what God is asking me to do.

In contrast to both the Pharisee and your priest, the tax collector stands far off, eyes lowered, chest beating—a gesture of grief and confession. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

That word mercy means more than pity. It means, “God, make things right between us.” It’s mercy that restores relationship and evaporates shame. He’s not bargaining, comparing, or promising to do better. He simply trusts that God’s heart is bigger than his failure.

And here’s the turn-everything-on-its-head twist that Our Lord is so fond of producing: Jesus says this man—the one everyone thought was lost—goes home justified.

“Justified” sounds abstract, but it means “set right.” The tax collector leaves the Temple right with God because he stopped trying to make himself right on his own. Meanwhile, the Pharisee—still clutching his spiritual résumé—leaves just as he came in: impressive, but untouched.

His problem isn’t that he’s good at religion; it’s that his goodness has become a mirror instead of a window. His prayer begins in gratitude but ends in comparison. He thanks God for not making him like others—and in doing so, forgets the God who made him at all.

When I think about this parable, I’m reminded of a story about a snowball and my college geology professor, Dr. Bran Potter.

We were on a three-week geology trip through the Western U.S. One snowy morning on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, a student thought it would be funny to throw a snowball at Dr. Potter. It narrowly missed, exploding against the side-view mirror.

Dr. Potter stopped, looked at the student, and in his stately New England accent said, “You have no concept.” It was such an elegant rebuke that no one dared respond, but I’ve thought of it often.

The snowball-wielding student had no concept that Dr. Potter who had been leading that early summer trip for decades had never dealt with snow and in those freezing temperatures was attempting to get our trailer hitched to the lead van so we could travel to a motel—something he had never had to do in all the years of the trip. The student had no concept of what was going on, he didn’t take a moment to look around and observe the challenges at hand.

I think about that line whenever I feel myself sliding into throwing a snowball of judgment—when I assume I know why someone drives the way they do, ministers the way they do, or makes executive decisions the way they do. When I assume I know why someone votes the way they do, struggles with what I don’t struggle with, or even prays as they do. Because most of the time, I have no concept.

I don’t know the stories that have shaped them, the pain they carry, the fears that drive them. And when I forget that, I start praying like the Pharisee—talking to myself about myself, thanking God that I’m not like them.

The irony, of course, is that the tax collector, who “stood far off,” ends up closer to God than the one who stood proudly in the center.

Humility in Scripture isn’t about thinking less of ourselves; it’s about thinking more about God and others. It’s about finally seeing truth—about God and about us. We are not the center of the universe.

When we pray from that place, our prayers stop bouncing off the ceiling. They shift from our wants to the world’s needs. They connect because they’re real. Saint Augustine once wrote, “God sees a low place to fill, not a high place to topple.” That’s the heart of this parable. God’s grace rushes into any space left open for it. The problem isn’t that the Pharisee is too righteous—it’s that he’s too full of himself to make room for grace.

And grace often works through surprising reversals. Luke loves reversals: the proud brought low, the lowly lifted up. This parable is Mary’s song all over again—“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly.” The tax collector goes home justified not because humility earns salvation but because humility receives it. When life brings us low—through our failures or the world’s pain—it’s easier to receive the freedom Christ offers.

Faith, at its core, isn’t transaction; it’s trust—the courage to believe that God’s mercy is for me even when I don’t deserve it, and for them—whoever “them” happens to be—even when I wish it weren’t.

It’s tempting to think this story is about two kinds of people: the humble and the proud. But maybe both live in us. Some days we pray like Pharisees—confident, polished, maybe a little too certain. Other days we pray like tax collectors—barely holding it together, hoping mercy is real.

The good news is that Jesus tells this story for both. He tells it to the Pharisee in us who needs to stop praying at our own reflection. He tells it to the tax collector in us who needs to know that God hears even the simplest cry for mercy. And he tells it to the Church—to remind us that righteousness isn’t about comparison but communion.

A few weeks ago, I watched two kids on a soccer field bump into each other. One looked up and said, “Sorry.” The other said, “It’s okay.” And then they just kept playing. No lingering guilt, no keeping score—just restored relationship. That’s what the tax collector discovers in the Temple: God’s “It’s okay” that sends him home free. And that’s what Jesus still offers—to everyone standing far off, to everyone praying toward themselves, to everyone caught between pride and shame.

Mercy is the bridge back home. Let’s walk it together—with Christ. Amen.