Ponder All These Things

Sunday, May 24, 2026

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

When we think of Pentecost, most of us probably first go to the story from Acts we heard today as our first lesson.

The disciples are gathered together. Suddenly, the house is filled with the sound of a violent wind. Tongues like fire appear among them. They begin speaking in languages they did not know before, and people hear God’s mighty works proclaimed in their own native tongues.

It is public. Dramatic. Loud. Expansive.The Spirit rushes into the house and pushes the disciples beyond it. But today our Gospel gives us another story of the Spirit being imparted by God, and this one feels very different.

It is evening on the day of the Resurrection. The disciples are gathered behind locked doors. They are afraid. Mary Magdalene has already announced, “I have seen the Lord,” but they are not yet living as though Jesus’ Resurrection has changed everything.

They are still hiding. And Jesus comes and stands among them. He does not shame them for their fear. His first words are simply, “Peace be with you.”

Then Jesus shows them his hands and his side: the wounds he still carries in his risen body. And then he says again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

Then Jesus breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” In John’s Gospel, account Pentecost does not begin with wind filling a house. It begins with breath in a locked room.

In Acts, the Spirit comes publicly, drawing people together across nations and languages. In John, the Spirit comes tenderly, breathing new life into frightened disciples and entrusting them with the holy work of forgiveness and reconciliation.

Together, they reveal something essential: the Spirit of God comes to us in manifold ways.

Sometimes the Spirit comes like fire.
Sometimes the Spirit comes like breath.
Sometimes the Spirit moves through a crowd.
Sometimes the Spirit meets us behind locked doors.
Sometimes the Spirit gives us words to speak.
Sometimes the Spirit gives us enough peace to take the next faithful step.

And so we should be careful not to discount another person’s experience of the Spirit because it does not look like our own.

Some encounter God in music that lifts their hearts until they cannot help but sing. Some encounter God in silence, when the noise quiets enough for them to know that they are loved. Some encounter the Spirit in serving someone in need, in bread and wine, in recovery, or in a conversation that becomes holy.

The Spirit is free. The Spirit blows where she will. The Spirit is not ours to control or contain. Our calling is not to decide in advance how God must appear. Our calling is to pay attention when God does.

Yet, for all their differences, the Pentecost accounts from John and Acts share a common direction. In both stories, the Spirit does not come merely for spiritual experience. The Spirit comes to send them into the world.

In John, Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In Acts, the Spirit enables the disciples to proclaim good news to people from every nation under heaven. So, the Spirit does not breathe upon us merely so that we can feel peaceful for ourselves. The Spirit does not set our hearts on fire merely so that we can admire the warmth. The Spirit draws us into the mission and ministry of Jesus: mercy, healing, truth, justice, forgiveness, and reconciliation.

John makes that especially clear. As soon as Jesus breathes the Spirit upon the disciples, he speaks about forgiving and retaining sins.

Now reconciliation does not mean pretending harm never happened. It does not mean avoiding difficult truth or allowing injustice to continue.

After all, the risen Jesus shows the disciples his wounds before he sends them out.

The wounds are real. But the wounds no longer have the final word. The crucified and risen Christ stands among frightened people, bearing the marks of violence, abandonment, betrayal, and death, and says, “Peace be with you.” That is reconciliation: not the erasure of wounds, but God bringing new life and new relationship through them.

And, Acts tells the same story in a different way. At Pentecost, people from many cultures and nations hear the Gospel in their own languages. Notice what the Spirit does not do. The Spirit does not require everyone to abandon their language and speak one official holy language. The Spirit does not erase difference or flatten humanity into uniformity. Each person hears God’s mighty works in the language of home.

Pentecost is not sameness. Pentecost is communion across difference.

If Babel is humanity divided by its attempt to grasp power and climb their way to the seat of God, then Pentecost is God’s response: not human beings climbing toward heaven through domination, but heaven pouring itself out upon human beings in grace.

Sons and daughters shall prophesy. Young people shall see visions. Old people shall dream dreams. Those the world considers powerless shall receive the Spirit. The Spirit is poured out upon all flesh.

Paul says something similar to the Corinthians. There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit. And then he gives us the key: “To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” The gifts of the Spirit are not given to make us impressive. They are given to make us useful to one another in love.

That is no small task, because the world is noisy. Every day, voices compete for our attention: politics, companies, screens, anxieties, outrage, productivity, and endless possibility. No wonder it can feel difficult to discern the Spirit, especially when we are choosing not between obvious good and evil, but between good and good, necessary and necessary, difficult and difficult.

And yet, even now, the Spirit is moving. The Spirit is moving here, at Holy Apostles, as we discern how to serve, love, forgive, heal, and become the community God is calling us to be.

The Spirit is calling us into a future we cannot see and certainly cannot control. We might prefer the Spirit to hand us a complete plan. But the Spirit rarely works that way.

Sometimes the Spirit blows us beyond doors we locked for security.
Sometimes the Spirit breathes life into places in us we thought were too wounded and she calls us to serve from there. Sometimes the Spirit burns away something we thought we needed. Sometimes the Spirit speaks through someone whose experience is different from our own. So perhaps the invitation of Pentecost is simple: slow down enough to listen.

Listen for the Spirit moving in your own life. Listen for the Spirit moving in this community. Listen for the Spirit speaking through gifts unlike your own. Listen for the Spirit calling you toward reconciliation. Listen for the Spirit pushing us beyond fear and into freedom.

Because our salvation does not come from political might, economic security, productivity, popularity, being right, or controlling the future. Our salvation comes from the God who breathes life into dust, raises the wounded Christ from the dead, pours out the Spirit upon all flesh, and sends ordinary people into the world carrying extraordinary love.

I want to close with a blessing from William Sloane Coffin who was a Chaplain at Yale for several decades including during the tumultuous 1960s. His witness of God’s reconciling love for all was evidenced not only by his care for his students, but also in organizing freedom riders to travel south to help with voter registration. This benediction, “A Blessing of Grace,” feels right for Pentecost:

May God give you the grace never to sell yourself short;
Grace to risk something big for something good; and
Grace to remember the world is now
too dangerous for anything but the truth and
too small for anything but love.

So come, Holy Spirit. Breathe upon us behind our locked doors. Set fire to whatever in us needs to be made new. Give each of us gifts for the common good. Draw us together without erasing who you have made us to be. And send us out, in the peace of Christ, to participate in the reconciliation and renewal of the whole world.

Amen.

Sunday, May 17, 2026

Not Comfortable and Not Comfortless

The Sunday between Ascension and Pentecost gives us much to ponder as the Church

Acts 1:6-14

Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36

1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11

John 17:1-11

This sermon was preached on the Seventh Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may watch a video of it here.

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

There is a strange little season in the life of the Church that we do not always know what to do with. It is the space between Ascension and Pentecost.

Jesus has been raised from the dead. He has appeared to the disciples, taught them, blessed them, and opened their minds to understand the Scriptures. And then, as Acts tells us, Jesus is lifted up, and a cloud takes him out of their sight.

But Pentecost has not happened yet. The Spirit has not rushed through the house. The disciples have not yet poured into the streets proclaiming the mighty acts of God. They are not where they were, but they are not yet where they are going. They are in-between.

And maybe that is why this Sunday feels so honest. Because so much of life is lived there: between one season ending and another beginning, between what we know and what we cannot yet see.

And today, on Senior Recognition Sunday, that in-between space is not just liturgical. It is personal.

Our seniors are standing in a threshold season. They are finishing one chapter of life and preparing for another. Some in the Class of 2026 will go to college, some will begin work, and some will take a different path. Some may feel excited, others anxious, and most probably feel a bit of both.

And they are stepping into a world that many of us do not quite know how to explain. It is a world of beauty, possibility, creativity, connection, and service. But it is also a world heavy with uncertainty: political division, war, anxiety, climate change, displacement, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, white supremacy, and bigotry of all kinds. A world where people are often sorted into camps before they are seen as human beings. So the temptations for us are real.

One temptation is to say nothing: to proclaim a Gospel untouched by the actual wounds of the world. But that is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Another temptation is to turn the Gospel into a weapon: to confuse the Kingdom of God with whichever political tribe makes us feel safest, angriest, or most righteous. But that is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ either.The Gospel gives us a harder and holier way: not silence, not partisan captivity, but faithful witness.

And that is exactly where Acts meets us today. The disciples ask Jesus, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” It is a very human question. Is now the time? Are you finally going to fix it? Are you finally going to make everything right? Can we please have the timeline?

Jesus does not shame them for asking, but he does not give them control either. He says, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority.” But then he says, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses.”

You do not get control, but you do get the Spirit. You do not get the whole timeline, but you do get a calling. That is the life of the Church.

And, dear seniors, that is not a bad word for you either…

You do not have to know your whole life right now. You do not have to see the entire map. You do not have to solve the world by age eighteen. You do not have to become impressive enough to justify all the love that has been poured into you.

You are not loved because you are impressive. You are loved because you are beloved. And the calling of your life is not first to be successful, polished, productive, and certain. The calling of your life is to receive the love of God, become more fully the person God created you to be, and bear witness to the love of Christ wherever you go. In short, your call is to live faithfully in response to Our God who is always faithfully with us.

That witness may look like kindness when someone feels alone. It may look like telling the truth when others laugh at cruelty. It may look like caring for creation, making art, studying, serving, building friendships, or practicing quiet faithfulness. The Spirit does not make all of us the same—the Spirit makes all of us witnesses.

And notice what the disciples do after Jesus ascends. No post-Ascension marketing roll-out, no doomscrolling the Roman Empire, and no wildly popular initial public offering. Instead, they return to Jerusalem, go upstairs, and devote themselves constantly to prayer.

That is not avoidance. It is preparation.

Prayer is not the opposite of action. Prayer is how the Church remembers who we are before we act. Prayer is where we lay down our panic long enough to receive courage. Prayer is where we remember that Caesar is not Lord, fear is not Lord, the market is not Lord, the empire is not Lord, the algorithm is not Lord, and the loudest voice in the room is not Lord.

Jesus is Lord.

And in John’s Gospel lesson, we hear something beautiful: Jesus prays for his disciples. Jesus knows what is coming. He knows they will be confused and afraid. He knows they will deny, doubt, and scatter. And still, Jesus prays for them.

He does not pray for them because they are strong, but because they are his. He prays, “Holy Father, protect them in your name… so that they may be one, as we are one.” Jesus does not pray that they will be popular, win every argument, or escape all suffering. Jesus prays that they will be protected in God’s name and that they will be one.

That matters now to us in the Church, because we often confuse unity with agreement. But Jesus does not pray that his disciples will have identical opinions, politics, temperaments, backgrounds, gifts, or preferences.

He prays that they will be one in love—Christ’s self-giving love.

The kind of love that can tell the truth without contempt. The kind of love that can name injustice without hatred. The kind of love that can resist evil without becoming evil. The kind of love that can face a fractured world without giving in to despair.

That is the unity Jesus prays for. And the good news is that Jesus still prays for his own. Jesus prays for our seniors. Jesus prays for this parish. Jesus prays for every beloved child of God trying to live faithfully in an anxious age.

And then, through the Spirit, Jesus sends us. So, seniors, as you go from this place into whatever comes next, remember this:

You are not alone. You are not your résumé, your GPA, or your college decision. You are not your anxiety, your worst decision, or the future you cannot yet see. You are beloved of God.

And you have a witness to bear now. You are not the Church of the future. You are the Church now. And the rest of us need your questions, your courage, your honesty, your dreams for a more merciful world, and your hope.

And to the rest of us: our calling is not simply to recognize these seniors and send them off with polite applause. Our calling is to bless them, support them, listen to them, pray for them, and learn from them. Because the Spirit’s presence has no minimum age.

So maybe today, the word for all of us is this: Stop staring anxiously into the sky. Not because heaven does not matter, but because Christ has given us work to do here on earth.

Pray deeply. Wait faithfully. Love boldly. Tell the truth gently. Protect the vulnerable. Resist despair. Cast your anxiety on God. Bear witness to Christ.

The world is uncertain, as it was for the disciples too. But Jesus prayed for them. Then came the Spirit. And the Good News moved through those prayerful ones.

May it be so with us. May it be so with these seniors. May it be so with the Church. Amen.

Sunday, May 10, 2026

Not Orphaned

Jesus speaks one of the most important truths that feels important to hear in this moment: "I will not leave you orphaned." Let's explore this statement more!

This sermon was preached on the Sixth Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may watch a video of it here.

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

There are some fears we grow out of. When we are little, we might be afraid of the dark, or monsters under the bed, or being dropped off at school and wondering if our parents are really going to come back.

And then we get older and become very sophisticated, mature, capable adults… And we find new things to be afraid of. The monsters under the bed become bills, diagnoses, conflict, grief, and loneliness; aging parents, struggling children, uncertain futures, and the quiet fear that maybe we are not enough.

Or maybe even deeper than that: the fear that we are alone. Not just physically alone. But spiritually alone. Emotionally alone. Relationally alone.

The fear that when the hard thing comes, no one will be there. That when the grief hits, no one will understand. That when we mess up, no one will stay. That when the world changes, when the old certainties fall away, when the life we knew disappears, we will have to figure it all out by ourselves.

And perhaps that lands with particular tenderness today, on Mother’s Day — a day that is beautiful for many, complicated for many, painful for many, and often all of those things at once. Later in the service, we will offer a prayer broad enough, I hope, to hold some of that complexity. But here, in the Gospel, Jesus speaks a word beneath all of it: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

That is the heart of the Gospel today.

“I will not leave you orphaned.” Jesus says this on the night before his death. He is not speaking in a peaceful moment by the Sea of Galilee while the disciples are well-rested and full of bread and fish—nor after it’s all worked out.

He is speaking in the shadow of the cross—to friends who are about to watch their world fall apart. He’s speaking to ones who will soon scatter, deny, hide, weep, and wonder whether everything they had hoped for was just another beautiful dream crushed by the powers of the world.

And Jesus knows this. He sees what is coming. So, he prepares them.

But notice how he prepares them. He does not hand them a guide entitled, “How to Survive Good Friday,” nor does he say, “Here’s what is going to happen and here’s how you should manage your anxiety.” No, he says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”

Intriguing. Another Advocate. Another Helper, Comforter, One who comes alongside.

From our 2,000 year later vantage point, we see Jesus offering the Spirit.

The Spirit of truth. The Spirit who abides. The Spirit who will not just visit them from time to time when they’re especially holy or especially well-behaved.

No, it’s the Spirit who will be with them, in them, among them. This isn’t abstract, nor is it a secret doctrinal quiz before Jesus keeps going. This is pastoral care.

This is Jesus looking at frightened people and saying, “You are going to feel like I am gone. But I will not abandon you. You are going to feel like the world has won. But I am coming to you. You are going to feel like death has had the last word. But because I live, you also will live.”

That is the promise.

Not: nothing hard will happen, love will prevent grief, or faith will block fear

But: We will not be abandoned. We will not be left alone to figure out resurrection life by ourselves. And, that matters because Christians too often talk about faith as though the goal is to be fearless. As though if we really believed, we would never be anxious, never confused, never weary, never shaken.

But that is not what we see in Scripture. The disciples are afraid, confused, and misunderstanding Jesus all the time. They lose heart, nerve, and perspective.

Fortunately, we do not hear Jesus say, “Well, when you finally get yourselves together, I’ll send the Spirit.” He says, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate.” The gift comes to fragile, frightened, and unproven people. That is grace—God’s favor unearned, undeserved.

Then, Jesus offers something more, that can sound conditional: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.”

Now, if we are not careful, we may hear that as a threat. “If you love me, prove it, perform, get everything right.”

But that is not the voice of Jesus. That is the voice of anxiety dressed up in Jesus’ robes. He’s not saying “Obey me so that I will love you.” He is saying “When you live in my love, my way will become visible in you.”

So, what are Jesus commandments? In John’s Gospel account, it’s not a checklist of religious performance. It’s simply: “Love one another as I have loved you.” That is the command.

Love one another. Love as Jesus loves. Love with humility, mercy, courage.

Live in love that washes feet, feeds the hungry, welcomes the outsider, forgives enemies, tells the truth, lays itself down for the life of the world.

“If you love me, keep my commandments” does not mean, “Become impressive.” It means, “Let my love take shape in your life.” And that is why the gift of the Spirit is so important. Because we cannot do this on our own.

We cannot manufacture Christlike love through willpower, or grit our teeth hard enough to become the Body of Christ. We need help. We need the Advocate, the Comforter, the Spirit of truth, to come alongside us, to dwell within us, to remind us who we are and whose we are.

Because the truth is, when we feel orphaned, we often stop acting like beloved children of God. When we feel abandoned, we become defensive, controlling, or start protecting ourselves at the expense of others. And whole communities can do this too, which sadly means churches can do this.

When a church feels anxious, it can start living as though scarcity is the deepest truth. As though the past is gone, the future is uncertain, and everything depends on us holding it all together by force of personality and committee structure—not that committee structure is unimportant. This is still the Episcopal Church after all—and we love our order (sometimes, too much).

Regardless, the Church is not held together by anxiety, nor sustained by nostalgia, nor saved by frantic effort, nor fueled by fear. The Church lives because Christ lives. Christ lives in, among, between, around, and beyond us.

Jesus says, “Because I live, you also will live.” That is the promise and the ground on which we stand.

And, here is where the Gospel becomes very practical for us. Because all of us, at some point, have to decide what kind of people we will become when we are afraid.

Will fear make us smaller? Meaner? Overly controlling?

Will fear hasten us to isolate ourselves? Become skeptical of our neighbors? Turn our religion into sword and shield?

Or will we receive the Spirit again? Will we let the Advocate come alongside us? Will we remember that we are not orphaned? Will we allow the love of Jesus to become visible in us precisely when love is hardest?

That is the invitation. And, thanks be to God, it is not only personal. It is communal. We walk this path and do this holy work together.

So, what would it mean for Holy Apostles to live as a community that truly believes Jesus has not left us orphaned? It would not mean we never feel anxious. It would not mean we never disagree. It would not mean we never grieve what has changed or wonder what comes next.

But it would mean that underneath all of that, there is a deeper confidence.

Christ is alive. The Spirit abides. God is near. We are not alone.

And because we are not alone, we can love, we can serve, we can take the next faithful step.

Because we are not alone, we can welcome the stranger, care for the hurting, teach our children, tend our elders, forgive one another, tell the truth, and bear witness to the life-giving, liberating love of God in Jesus Christ. Not because we are so strong. But because the Spirit is with us.

Because the Spirit is in us. Because Jesus keeps his promises.

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.” These are words for frightened disciples—for weary churches—for anxious hearts. Words for anyone who has ever wondered whether they are going to have to carry the whole thing alone.

You are not orphaned. You are not abandoned. You are not left to your own devices.

The risen Christ is not simply someone we remember. He is the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. The One whose Spirit abides. The One whose love becomes highly visible when his people keep his way—living in love.

And because he lives, we also will live. So love him. Keep his way. Receive the Spirit. And do not be afraid.

For Christ has promised: “I will not leave you orphaned.” And Christ always keeps God’s promises.