Ponder All These Things

Thursday, April 2, 2026

This Is What Love Looks Like

In the Triduum, we discover what Love truly looks like.

This sermon was preached on Maundy Thursday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the message may be found by clicking 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.

Earlier this week—Palm Sunday evening, actually—I was helping get my kids ready for bed.

Bath time, pajamas, the usual rhythm.

And Teddy said something simple.

He said, “My feet are dry… and they hurt.”

So I grabbed some lotion, sat down, and started taking care of his feet while Kim read a story from Lucy’s storybook Bible.

In the middle of this moment, I realized, “Oh, this is a lot like Maundy Thursday.”

But, let me be clear—I was not doing the same thing that Jesus does for us tonight.

Jesus is washing feet that have walked through dirty streets…

streets filled with grim and dust…

and these feet would be inches away from your face as you reclined at table to eat.

It was not a sweet moment.
It was a humbling one.

Still somewhere in the middle of rubbing lotion into my son’s feet, I slowed down.

And I realized—I wasn’t just helping him.

I was loving him.

Not efficiently.
Not abstractly.
Not from a distance.

But right there.
On his level.

In a way that cost me something—time, attention, presence, and money (for the lotion).

And that’s when something deeper hit me.

I may not be doing exactly what Jesus did, but this…

This is the direction Jesus is pointing us tonight.

Because on this night, Jesus does something extraordinary.

He kneels.

The Teacher.
The Lord.
The one who—just days before—was welcomed like a king…

The one through whom all things were made…

The Light of the World…

The Way, the Truth, and the Life…

John tells us

The Resurrection and the Life kneels.

And he washes their feet.

Even Peter’s.
Even Judas’s.

And then he says something that should stop us in our tracks.

He doesn’t say on this night, “Love your neighbor as yourself”—as beautiful and important as that is.

But: “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

That is a different standard.

That is not: love in proportion to your own comfort.
That is not: love as long as it feels mutual.
That is not: love in a way that preserves your status.

Instead it is: love like this.

Love that kneels.
Love that serves.
Love that moves toward the lowest place.

This is what love looks like—not just any love—agape love, self-giving love, self-emptying love, even.

And if we’re honest, this is the kind of love that does not get rewarded nearly enough in our day and age.

Because it doesn’t climb ladders.
It doesn’t build platforms.
It doesn’t impress crowds.

But it does something far more important.

It makes Christ visible.

Because when we love like this—quietly, humbly, concretely—
we are not putting a spotlight on ourselves.

We are reflecting the light of Christ.

A warm glow.
Not a blinding glare.

A presence that says:
“You are not alone.”
“God is with you—even here.”

And beyond here…
Even in the garden when we cannot stay awake.

Even in the moment of betrayal when we cannot stay faithful.

Even in the courtyard when we cannot stay truthful.

So, maybe this is the invitation tonight.

Not just to admire what Jesus did.

But to receive it… and then to become it.

To love our families like this.

Washing their feet or putting lotion on them, at least…
Yes.

But also the ones we overlook.
The ones we avoid.
The ones who don’t make it easy.

Even the ones who might betray us.

Because Judas is still at the table tonight.

And Jesus still kneels.

Which means this:

There is no one beyond the reach of this love.

So as we wash and are washed…

as we offer our selves, our souls and bodies at this table…
as we are fed by Christ’s life given for us…

may we be changed.

Not into people who simply believe the right things.

But into people who live this love.

Kneeling.
Serving.
Giving.

This is what love looks like.

Amen.

Sunday, March 29, 2026

What Kind of King?

Jesus challenges our assumptions about power, status, and position

The Liturgy of the Palms

Matthew 21:1-11

Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29

The Liturgy of the Word

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Philippians 2:5-11

Matthew 26:14- 27:66

or Matthew 27:11-54

Psalm 31:9-16

This sermon was preached on Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found 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.

I wonder what kind of king they thought they were getting. That question has been rattling around in my brain all week. Because this week begins with excitement. Energy. Movement. A kind of holy parade.

Jesus comes into Jerusalem, and people start throwing their cloaks on the road. They wave branches. They shout, “Hosanna!” which doesn’t mean “praise God,” but something more like, “Save us now!”

And fair enough. If you had lived under the shadow of empire…
if you had known instability, oppression, religious anxiety, political fear…
if you had been longing for God to finally do something…
you might shout too. “Save us now!”

But here’s the curious thing: Jesus does not arrive the way kings normally arrive. No war horse. No army. No chariot. No spectacle of force.

He comes on a donkey. Not exactly the image of domination.

He comes in humility.

He comes in vulnerability.

He comes in peace.

And so I wonder:
Did they really want this king?

Or did they envision a different kind of savior entirely?

A savior who would crush enemies.
A savior who would make things easy.
A savior who would fix the world quickly and on their terms.

And before we get too hard on them, I think that question belongs to us too.

What kind of Christ do we actually want? What sort of Jesus do we seek?

Do we yearn for one who blesses our plans, confirms our assumptions, and defeats the people we don’t like?

Or do we desire the Jesus who comes gently…

who refuses the way of domination…

who rides into the center of power without becoming power as the world understands it?

Palm Sunday is strange that way. It begins with praise, but it does not let us stay there in a shallow kind of triumph. In this liturgy, we move from palms to Passion. From “Hosanna!” to the story of suffering and the cross. And maybe that is because the Church, in her wisdom, knows how quickly human beings can change.

How quickly devotion can become disappointment.

How quickly excitement can sour when Christ does not perform according to our expectations.

How quickly we can praise a Messiah on Sunday and resist him by Friday.

So maybe Palm Sunday is not just a celebration. Maybe it is also an unveiling. Maybe it reveals the kind of king Jesus is. And maybe it reveals the kind of disciples we still struggle to be.

Because Jesus does not enter Jerusalem to seize control.

He enters Jerusalem to give himself away.

He does not come to reign by fear.

He comes to reign by love.

He does not come to save by standing far off from human pain.

He comes to enter it fully.

And that means this day is not just asking, “Will you wave a branch?”

It is asking, “Will you follow?”

Will you follow this Jesus into the week ahead?

Will you follow him to the table on Maundy Thursday, where love kneels down to wash feet?

Will you follow him to Good Friday, where the love of God refuses to turn away from suffering?

Will you follow him into the silence of Holy Saturday, where nothing seems resolved and yet God is not absent?

That, I think, is the invitation of Palm Sunday. Not just to admire Jesus, the Christ. Not just to cheer for Our Lord. But to follow him.

And not the Jesus of our fantasies.

The real Jesus.

The humble one.

The peaceful one.

The brave one.

The one who enters the holy city not to destroy, but to redeem.

So perhaps the most faithful thing we can do today is hold our palms with gratitude and honesty. Yes, gratitude — because Christ has come to us. But also humble honesty — because we do not always know what kind of king we are asking for.

And still, he comes.

Still, he comes to us in humility.
Still, he comes to us in mercy.
Still, he comes to us not as a tyrant, but as love in the flesh.

So let us greet him with joy.
And let us follow him with courage.
One day at a time.
Through the whole holy week.

Amen.

Household of Believers

This sermon was preached on the Fifth Sunday in Lent (Year A, 2026) at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found 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.

Ezekiel is set down by God in a valley full of bones. Not just bones.
Dry bones. Very dry bones.

That detail means this is not fresh pain. This is old devastation. The kind that has settled in. The kind that starts to feel normal. The kind that becomes the landscape.

And God asks Ezekiel, “Mortal, can these bones live?”

That is a hard question. Because the answer to this sort of question doesn’t feel obvious.

Can this faith live?
Can this heart beat with love?
Can this family heal?
Can this weary soul breath again?

I know something about that.

When I was a junior at Sewanee, I looked impressive on paper. I was heavily involved in chapel life, Bible studies, residential life, cross-country/track and all while maintaining my grades. From the outside, I looked like someone whose spiritual life was strong and headed in the right direction.

And during that season, our Suffragan Bishop Mark Andrus and my rector, Marc Burnette, invited me to come talk with them. They told me they thought I should pursue ordination and go straight to seminary.

It was kind. It was humbling. But I had to tell them the truth. Despite how I looked on paper, inside, my life was falling apart. My heart had been broken. My faith was unraveling. The worldview I had carefully built was coming apart. I was still showing up and doing all the right things, but inwardly I felt as dead as Lazarus.

Thanks be to God, those men did not shame me. They listened. And they encouraged me to meet with the Rev. Annwn Myers, the associate chaplain at Sewanee at that time.

When I sat in her office, I told the truth. And she did not rush to fix me. She made room for me. She reminded me that I did not need a huge faith. Just faith the size of a mustard seed.

Still, I felt dead on a soul level. This persisted for not four days, not even four months, but about a year. By that time, I had all but put down the spirituality of my childhood. In the liminal space, walking from what was to what would be I became more open and spent time seeking, wandering, and wondering what my life’s path was and whether God was part of it, nonexistent, or actively trying to sabotage me. I pondered could my spiritual life live again—could my life change?

And not on my timeline, but on God’s something did change. It took a long time for me to realize what God was doing, but eventually I realized God was filling my spiritual lungs with something fresh. And looking back now, I know this: through grace God brought me back to life, but it was the community—folks like Annwn, my friends, and my family—it was the community that brought me back to living.

And that is why Bethany matters. Bethany is the home of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. It is more than the place where a miracle happens. It is where this household of believers lives. And each of them shows us something.

Martha goes out to meet Jesus. She is active, direct, engaged. And here in John she is not just busy. She is bold in faith. She says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God.” She shows us that discipleship includes action. Serving, reaching out, showing up, loving our neighbors in concrete ways.

Mary shows us something different. She is the one who grieves, who weeps, who stays close to the sorrow. She reminds us that discipleship also includes contemplation. Stillness. Listening. The willingness to sit with grief and let God meet us there.

Sometimes people say, “I’m a Martha” or “I’m a Mary,” but we are both—we need both! Action without contemplation can become self-aggrandizing or frantic. Contemplation without action can become self-enclosed, even apathetic. We need both action and contemplation as we experience God’s grace. But, what about when we don’t have either?

There’s another member of this household of believers—there is Lazarus. And Lazarus reminds us that sometimes we are not Martha and we are not Mary. Sometimes we are the one in the tomb. Sometimes we are so exhausted, so wounded, so overwhelmed, so heartsick, that we cannot get ourselves to Jesus and we cannot even pray, except with sighs too deep for words.

And that is when today’s Gospel becomes especially good news. Because Jesus does not only meet the active. He does not only meet the prayerful. He also goes after the dead. He stands at the mouth of the tomb and calls life forth.

And then he says to the community, “Unbind him, and let him go.” That is what the Church is meant to be—a place of God’s liberating love. A place where people do not have to pretend to be fine. A place where some serve like Martha. A place where some pray and weep like Mary. And a place where those who come stumbling out of the tomb, still wrapped in bandages, are not shamed.

They are loved. They are seen. They are unbound. So, whether you find Jesus like Martha, or wait for Jesus to find you like Mary, or need Jesus to drag you out of some dead place like Lazarus, the truth is the same:

He comes. He enters our grief. He enters our homes. He enters our tombs. And wherever he finds us, he brings resurrected life.

Amen.