Ponder All These Things

Sunday, July 6, 2025

Belonging and Being Sent

Belonging to God means both being rooted in something other than yourself and serving something other than your self!

2 Kings 5:1-14
Psalm 30
Galatians 6:(1-6)7-16
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

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.

Hello, my name is Seth, and I am your rector. It’s been 4 Sundays, 28 days since I have preached in this pulpit. I’ve missed this AND… I have a lot to say! So, let’s go!

Last week at Camp McDowell, I was reminded again how desperately young people want to know that they belong.

That they are seen…

That they are accepted…

That they matter…

And, honestly it’s not just true for young people—we all want that, don’t we?

The theme for my program all week at Junior High 2 Session was “You Belong Here.” You belong here not just in the superficial way of fitting in or being included in a group photo, but in the deeper, sacred way that says you belong to God. And if you belong to God, then you also belong to this world that God loves, which means you belong to others. You belong to community. And, in this community that means you belong to the mission.

Which brings us to today’s Gospel.

Jesus sends seventy followers—seventy everyday disciples—ahead of him to the places he himself intends to go. That’s a beautiful paradox latent in this passage: the sent ones are not separated from Christ. They are not lone rangers on a mission of their own design. They’re sent with power, yes, but also with vulnerability. “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals… eat what is set before you.” They go with their whole lives—messy, uncertain, unfinished—as their testimony.

They go ahead of Jesus, which seems counter-intuitive. However, when I was a camp counselor, I would often walk at the tail end of my campers, as they traveled from activity to activity. More often than not, they already knew the way, but what they needed was encouragement. They yearned for someone not to bark orders, but to shout direction or to start a cheer that would unite us as one! Of course, these disciples didn’t go as one—not as individual beings I mean.

They were sent two by two—because belonging is never a solo endeavor.

This is a text about being sent. But it’s also a text about being rooted—grounded in God’s peace, in the life of the community, and in the assurance that we belong to the one who sends us. We are apostles—which means sent ones—not because we are perfect, but because we are known and loved by Christ.

And as the Church of the Holy Apostles, that ought to sound familiar. In this year when we are recognizing 30 years of this community, we can remember that at our church’s genesis we were sent from other Episcopal churches, from other denominations, from other places to be here. And, I believe God will continue to send us.

The seventy from today’s Gospel lesson were not just sent to deliver information. They were sent to create connection. “Whatever house you enter, say first, ‘Peace to this house.’” Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. Do I need to repeat that? They were sent to create connection. Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. The world is desperately craving this. We are built to be united, but…

In a world where people feel increasingly fragmented—where algorithms divide us, politics harden us, and busyness isolates us—Jesus sends us as ministers of peace, to show others that they belong to God, and to one another.

But here’s the part I don’t want you to miss: in order to proclaim belonging, we have to believe we belong ourselves. And that is harder than you think.

For we have to know deep in our bones that we are not imposters or outsiders in God’s household. That’s why during this past week at camp I began the spiritual program not with service projects or grand tasks, but with grounding the campers and staff in this truth: “You belong here.” Belonging isn’t something you earn by good behavior or high performance. It’s something you receive—like the gift of grace, which shares a connection with the fascinating story from our First Lesson.

In our Old Testament reading, we meet Naaman, a great military commander who carried an invisible wound—a skin condition that set him apart, that made him feel unclean, unwhole. He wanted to be healed, but on his terms. He came with money, status, and expectations., but God didn’t meet him in power. God met him in humility. The prophet Elisha did not even come to the door. Instead, he sent a messenger with a simple prescription: “Go wash in the Jordan seven times, and you shall be clean.”

At first, Naaman resisted—thinking how could it be so easy?! But then, thanks to the quiet courage of his servants—people he likely overlooked—Naaman surrendered. He dipped in the muddy waters of the Jordan, and he was made new. He found healing not through power or prestige, but through belonging to a God who met him in humility.

That’s our God. A God who uses the ordinary to do the extraordinary. A God who meets us in the places we are tempted to feel ashamed, and says, “You belong. You are not beyond my reach.”

Psalm 30 put it this way:
“You brought me up, O Lord, from the dead;
you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.”

This is the voice of someone who has known alienation, who has felt disoriented, who has been cut off. But they are brought back. Restored. Reclaimed. As Richard Rohr puts it so succinctly, the pattern of this life is order, disorder, reordering or life, death, and resurrection!

Which brings us to Paul’s words in Galatians.

He ends this beautiful, complicated, passionate letter with a call to community:
“Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

This is what belonging looks like in action. Not just warm feelings or inclusion for inclusion’s sake, but mutuality. Vulnerability. Bearing burdens. Carrying each other. Making space at the table not out of pity, but out of shared humanity. Witnessing one another’s life, death, and resurrection, as we share our own struggles of order, disorder, reordering.

Saint Paul inspires us in this holy work writing:
“Let us not grow weary in doing what is right.”

Of course, if we are honest: the work of proclaiming peace, building community, and practicing belonging is exhausting sometimes. We grow weary of hard conversations. Of cultural divisions. Of our own inner doubts and wounds.

But God through Paul encourages: we sow now so that others may reap later. We love now so that others may heal later. We show up in Jesus’ name so that others might realize they are not alone.

So, beloved friends, holy apostles, here is what I want you to hear this morning:

You belong here.
Not just because your name is in the directory.
Not just because you serve or give or sing in the choir.
You belong here because Jesus has called you, sent you, and is with you.

You belong to God.
You belong to this world that God loves.
You belong to the mission of healing and reconciliation.
You belong to the household of peace.

And because you belong, you are sent.

Just like the seventy.
Just like Naaman’s servants.
Just like Paul.
Just like those campers and staff who learned this week that belonging isn’t just something you feel—it’s something you offer to others.

So go.

Go as apostles—not perfect, but faithful.
Go two by two, bearing burdens and good news.
Go with no sandals if you have to.
Go to declare peace.
Go knowing that Jesus is already ahead of you.

You belong here. So go to help others know that they too belong to God.

Amen.

Sunday, June 8, 2025

The Wild Breath of God

A Pentecost Selfie at Holy Apostles

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

Romans 8:14-17

John 14:8-17, (25-27)

This sermon was preached on Pentecost Sunday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. Video of the sermon may be found here.

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.

Happy birthday to you. Cha cha cha!

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday Mother Church,

Happy birthday to you!

I tried to bring candles, and no not the ones already on the altar, but the Holy Spirit keeps blowing the little ones out. Okay, I kid, but…

Today, Pentecost is a day full of wind, fire, confusion, and—as Peter helpfully points out—supposed pre-noon intoxication. And that’s just the opening verses of Acts.

Today is the moment when we celebrate the Spirit bursting onto the scene not as a polite suggestion, but as a rush of violent wind and divided tongues of flame. It’s holy. It’s chaos. It’s Holy chaos. And somehow, in that chaos, people hear clearly in their own native tongue.

In Bible Study earlier this week, we recalled that this story is the undoing of what happened at Babel. When all the people of the earth all spoke the same language, which sounds lovely; however, it was highly problematic. For, as Genesis 11:1-9 informs us, the people attempted building a mighty tower to make a name for themselves, avoid being scattered—which God had commanded them “fill the earth”—and reach (beyond) heaven. Why? It's not quite clear, but some think it was to exert control over who gets into heaven. What happened?

The tower collapsed. The efforts failed. But, here on Pentecost we observe a throughline. Like Jesus undoing the denials of Peter on the beach, which we read earlier in Easter, here the Spirit brings back together these people from across the world. And yet, they keep their individual identity, still they can hear through the mighty power of not Google Translate, but the Holy Spirit!

It's as though the Spirit doesn’t just stir the pot—it lights it on fire and tosses it out the window. And, truth be told the Spirit is wild like that. God is wild like that.

I had a moment a few years ago that I think of every Pentecost. It wasn’t a wind or a fire. It wasn’t even very dramatic. It was just a breath.

It happened during an ordinary Tuesday. I was feeling worn down. Emails piling up. Laundry left unfolded. Parishioners in pain. Children growing faster than I could process. I sat down in a chair in the corner of our living room, not to pray—just to be still. I didn’t say a word. I just sighed.

And in that sigh, something happened.

Not a dove descending. Not a voice from heaven. But in that moment, a sense of peace washed over me—not like a solution, but like companionship. I felt held. It was as if the very air in my lungs was whispering: “You are not alone. I am with you.”

Jesus calls the Spirit the Advocate. The Greek word here is Paraclete, which literally means “the one called alongside.” The one who shows up. Who sighs with us. Who intercedes with sighs too deep for words, as Paul says elsewhere.

The Spirit is not just fire and frenzy; the Spirit is breath. In Hebrew, the word is רוח (ruach or roo’aak). It even sounds like a breath. And like breath, the Spirit is steady. Unrelenting. She’s ever pulsating within our mortal being.

And the Spirit is ever present within our Holy Scripture, too. Like in Psalm 104, which reads, “You send forth your Spirit, and they are created; and so you renew the face of the earth.” That may sound familiar to anyone who has gone through Cursillo—precisely because that piece of the Psalter is quoted within the prayer invoking the Holy Spirit. “Send forth your Spirit and we shall be created and you shall renew the face of the earth,” is almost a direct quotation and just think about what that is saying: the Spirit’s mission is not just creation, but also re-creation. Renewal. She didn’t simply move over the face of the Deep at the beginning of Genesis, she renewed those weary ones on the first Pentecost, and she’s here now (and I heard she’s bringing tacos and ice cream).

Yes, the Spirit is not done. God is not finished. And if you’re here today wondering whether God still shows up—wondering if there's anything left to breathe into the dust of your soul—then I have good news: Pentecost isn’t a one-time event. It’s a daily reality.

Sometimes I think we imagine the Spirit like a wind turbine out in the desert—powerful, yes, but distant, industrial, mechanical. What Scripture offers is more like this: the Spirit is the wild breath of God, as close as our next inhalation, as unpredictable as a summer storm in Alabama, as fierce as wildfire and as intimate as a whispered name.

Now I know that sounds poetic, but it’s also terrifying. Because if the Spirit is wild, then we can’t control it, like those ones wanted to do at the Tower of Babel. The uncontrollable nature of God’s Spirit unsettles us. We like to know the plan. We like to keep things orderly—thank you very much, The Book of Common Prayer. But the Spirit doesn’t follow our rubrics—those little italicized instructions.

As one preacher said: “The Holy Spirit will not be boxed, bottled, or booked in advance.” The Holy Spirit is more jazz than classical—improvisational, collaborative, and full of unexpected grace notes.

That’s the kind of God we have. A God who breathes into locked rooms where disciples cower in fear. A God who sets shy fishermen on fire with courage. A God who whispers peace—not in the absence of trouble, but right in the middle of it.

Jesus told the disciples, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” This isn’t Hallmark peace. It’s not spa-day peace. This is hard-earned, crucified, and risen peace. It’s the kind of peace that keeps showing up when everything else falls apart.

Friends, I don’t know what kind of Pentecost you’re hoping for. But I know what kind we need.

We need a Pentecost that breaks open our tightly sealed agendas.
We need a Pentecost that speaks to our divided tongues and reminds us we are still one body.
We need a Pentecost that breathes new life into the weary, the grieving, the burned out, and the fed up.

So breathe, Church.

Take a deep breath—like right now.
That breath is a gift.
That breath is a promise.
That breath is the Spirit.

And God’s Spirit is wild enough to help us wherever we journey next.

So, Come Holy Spirit fill the hearts of your faithful, kindle in us the fire of your love, and through your work help us to renew the face of the earth. It may be the Church’s birthday, but we are nothing without the gifts of the Spirit. Amen.

Sunday, May 18, 2025

A Few Words For Our Youth

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’s a saying I’ve seen on a bumper sticker before that reads:
“Don’t make me come down there — Love, God.”

When seeing this, I imagine God with one eyebrow raised, holy hand scratching his blindingly bright beard, standing on a cloud, looking down at our mess and our mischief. But the truth is — God probably doesn’t look like this and more importantly, God did come down here! And not with a lightning bolt, but with sandals and stories and, above all else… love.

And today — on Youth Sunday — I’m convinced that the message God came to give through Jesus could not be clearer. In John’s Gospel account, Jesus reclined at the table with his disciples. And in this story of the last night before the cross, there is no Last Supper. Just this:

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you.”

Now, let’s pause for a second. When Jesus says something is a commandment, we should probably write that down. It’s not a suggestion from our incarnate influencer—this isn’t a divine recommendation. He doesn’t say, “Try love when you’re feeling holy” or “Maybe sprinkle in a dash of godliness when you want some zest.” No — he says: Love. One another. As I have loved you.

And how did Jesus love them?

Well, he loved everyone—the bold ones and the shy ones. The fishermen and the tax collectors. He loved the ones who understood what he was saying and the ones who constantly asked, “Wait, what?” He loved Judas. He loved Peter — even after Peter denied knowing him. He loved through challenge, through wisdom, through healing, feeding, and sacrificing. And, his love had no exception clause, no footnotes, no expiration date.

That’s the kind of love we’re talking about.

And here are two things I want every youth at Holy Apostles to know — and honestly, what I hope all of us remember:

1. You are loved. Without limit. Without exception. Without end.

By God. By this church. By the people who make up this fun-loving, table-sharing, music-making, prayer-raising, Holy Apostles family.

2. And — here's the second part — that love is not a souvenir.

It’s not meant to sit on your shelf like your 3rd place ribbon from the science fair (although, well done!). It’s meant to be shared. Worn. Passed on. Like glitter at Vacation Bible School — it sticks to everything and everyone, and you can’t get rid of it.

You’re called to live out that love in real ways. In how you treat the new kid. In how you respond to hate or bullying. In how you show up when someone’s having a rough time. In how you include, rather than exclude.

Because, as Acts reminds us today — this love of God is for everyone. Peter has that weird picnic-blanket vision — you know, the one where animals come down from the sky like a heavenly food court — and it becomes clear that God's love is for all people. No one is unclean. No one is left out. Love has no border.

And Revelation paints the vision even more beautifully: a new heaven, a new earth, a world where every tear is wiped away. That’s where all this is going. And between now and then, our job is to love like that future is already true.

So — if you forget everything else from your years at Holy Apostles (even the doughnuts at Sunday School), I hope you remember this:

You are beloved. Always.
And your life’s work — wherever you go — is to love like Jesus. Loudly. Boldly. Graciously.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s who we are.
And because the world needs it.

And remember — when in doubt, just love. You’ll be doing the holiest work of all.

Amen.

Sunday, May 11, 2025

May We Walk This Road Together

Today is overloaded with meaning!

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’s a strangely fitting kind of beauty in how the Church calendar falls this year. Today is often called Good Shepherd Sunday, which yearly lands on the Fourth Sunday of Easter. It is a day of tenderness and trust—of comfort in the voice of Our Exemplary Shepherd who calls each one of us by name. But this year, Good Shepherd Sunday shares the occasion with Mother’s Day, a holiday that carries its own weight of tenderness and trust—but also grief, and loss, and joy—in short, complexity.

So, right here in the mix of these two celebrations, that’s where I want to begin. Because here’s the truth: if you spend enough time hearing people’s life stories, you realize something. Mothering, like shepherding, is not one thing.

For some, this day is filled with brunches, flowers, hugs from children and calls from grandkids. For others, it’s the ache of absence. The hollow space where a mother once stood. The sting of a child never born. The silence of estrangement. The weariness of single parenting. The beauty of chosen families. The burden of watching a parent slowly fade. The pain of not being mothered well. To be blunt, real life.

So, it seems only fitting that on this particular Sunday, we get these particular readings.

In Acts, we meet Tabitha, also known as Dorcas—a woman so beloved by her community that when she died, the widows gathered, held up the garments she made, and wept. These were not just clothes. They were stitched memories. They were turns of care and service. They were acts of mothering, in the deepest sense of the word.

And when Peter raised her from death, it was not just about resurrection in a physical sense. This was a proclamation that the work of love—especially the quiet, ordinary love of tending to others—matters. It lives on. It is resurrected, too.

In Revelation, we heard of a great multitude, from every nation, every tribe, every people, gathered before God’s throne. And in this vision, they cry out—not in despair, but in worship. They have come through “the great ordeal,” we’re told. They have suffered. They have known hunger and thirst and grief. And yet—they are there. They are seen. They are held.

And finally in John’s Gospel account, Jesus speaks to the skeptical crowd and says: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them. I give them eternal life. No one will snatch them out of my hand.”

Cutting to the heart of this message, we discover: Jesus knows us. The shepherd knows the sheep—not as a faceless flock, but one by one, voice by voice, story by story. Jesus doesn’t love us in general. Jesus loves you. And me. Even on days when we feel lost, or ashamed, or invisible. Even when we don’t feel very “resurrected.”

The Good Shepherd’s love does not demand that we be unbroken. In truth, it assumes our brokenness. Like in the Psalm we know by heart—The Lord is my Shepherd, which the choir beautifully led us in today. In that beautiful piece of spiritual poetry we hear, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” God is with us in our brokenness and when we walk through pitch black valleys because friends, there’s no if about it. We will face challenges. We will experience fearful things. And yet—we will not go through themalone. Our Shepherd never leaves us.

So, what does this constellation of readings and occasions mean for us?

It means we can hold our grief and our gratitude in the same hands.
It means we can be honest about the mess and still trust in God’s mercy.
It means we don’t have to be whole to be worthy of Love.
It means we can stop pretending to be who we think the world wants us to be and start listening for the voice that calls us by name—the Shepherd’s voice who says: You are mine. You are not forgotten. You are beloved.

And as we gather at this altar, at the Good Shepherd’s Table, at Our Holy Parent’s Feast, I want to share a prayer for all of us, and especially for those holding grief or complexity this Mother’s Day. These words are inspired by the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath, former Young Clergy Women International’s chaplain, and the Rev. Katie Kirk-Costas, Associate Rector at St. Thomas in Huntsville.

A Prayer for Mother’s Day
(adapted with gratitude from the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath)

I want you to know I’m praying for you—
if you are like Tamar, facing infertility or grieving a miscarriage.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Rachel, surrounded by pregnancies while you wait with empty arms.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Naomi, and have known the bitter sting of a child’s death.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Joseph or Benjamin, and your mother is no longer with you.
I’m praying for you—
if your relationship with your mom is strained, marked by pain or absence.
I’m praying for you—
if you have given a child up in love, entrusting their life to another’s care.
I’m praying for you—
if you have taken in a child not born of your body but born of your heart.
I’m praying for you—
if you sit beside a mother whose memory is slipping slowly away.
I’m praying for you—
if you are expecting, anxious and full of wonder at the life growing within.
I’m praying for you—
if you have watched your beloved child suffer injustice or violence, and still you grieve and rage.
I’m praying for you—
if your children have turned away, and you carry their absence like a stone in your chest.
I’m praying for you—
if mothering is your greatest joy and your hardest calling.
I’m praying for you—
if you are watching your child walk a path of struggle, and all you can do is love them from the sidelines.
I’m praying for you—
if motherhood is not your path, or not your desire, and you feel out of place in today’s celebration.
I’m praying for you—
if you are someone who mothers through mentoring, teaching, caregiving, or simply by showing up with love—though you have no children of your own.
I’m praying for you—
if you see yourself in these stories, or if yours remains unwritten, unnamed, or unknown.

This Mother’s Day, wherever you find yourself—
in joy, in sorrow, in longing, in gratitude—
know this:

We walk with you.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
You are seen.
You are worthy.

And may you come to know—more deeply today than yesterday—
the fierce and tender love of God,
whose care for us is stronger than death,
and whose embrace is wide enough to hold every story.

Amen.

These prayers are pastoral, prophetic, and profoundly true. They speak what too often goes unnamed. They dignify those whose stories don’t get Hallmark cards.

On this day, may we walk this road together—sheep and shepherds, mothers and children, the grieving and the rejoicing, all wrapped up in one Body. And may we trust that the voice of Love, the voice of Our Good Shepherd, Our All-Loving Parent is still calling our names. Still leading us forward. Still making all things new.

So, borrowing words from Saint Clare: Live without fear: your Creator has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother. Go in peace to follow the good road, and may God’s blessing be with you always. Amen.

Sunday, May 4, 2025

Bonus Good News: A Feast for the Heart

Today's Gospel lesson comes after the original ending of John, so what do we do with this bonus good news?

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL on the Third Sunday of Easter. A video of the message 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.

At the end of last week’s Gospel lesson — right before today’s story — we heard the following: “But these [things] are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” Boom! Resurrection, belief, and new life. End of story. Roll the credits.

Except… not quite. It’s like in an infomercial: But wait! There’s more!

Today we hear a bonus, post-Resurrection encounter — it almost feels like a surprise scene after the credits of a movie or a hidden track at the end of an album. In this Gospel lesson, John sneaks in one last story about the Risen Christ, it’s a secret epilogue of grace. As though, God is saying: You thought I was finished? I'm just getting started.

And what is in this bonus good news? What is it that God is just getting started?

It’s a beach breakfast, a miraculous catch of fish, a conversation about love and forgiveness, and—surprisingly—a challenge… to not just “believe,” but to live differently because you believe.

Now y’all, I know that change is challenging. Even when that change comes from experiencing the Resurrection. For in the new light of Easter, we experience newfound freedom—knowing that death doesn’t have the last word—but, this new way of being is impossible. At least it is on our own.

So, friends if you hold on to nothing more from these lessons, remember that if you are going to live “life in Christ,” you will need the risen Christ feeding you and transforming you. But, what does this sustaining presence look like? Well, let’s start by looking at a failed fishing expedition.

After everything—the empty tomb, the Easter appearances, and the imparting of the Holy Spirit (according to John)—what do the disciples do? Go on a mission to share the Good News? No! Serve the needy of Jerusalem? Nope! Pray unceasingly worshipping God? Nah! Instead, the disciples go fishing.

It's an odd thing. After everything that happened, they just went back to what they were doing before. And, who could blame them? There is not empirical data measuring the stress levels of these 1^st Century disciples, but imagine the mental and emotional load that was upon them. The leader of their movement had been viciously killed and mysteriously raised. It would make sense to blow off some steam by doing something fulfilling and familiar. It’s what we do too, right?

Perhaps we do this by going fishing, but it could also be when we’re golfing, hiking, running, cooking, traveling, or any other number of other productive ways to cope with stress. So, the disciples head to some well-known surroundings to recenter and recognize what had taken place, but…

They were terrible at it—at least the fishing. You would have thought none of them had fished before. How did they survive by doing this? Because they fished all night long and caught nothing. Not a single fish!

Then, at dawn, just as the sun rose (or was it the S-o-n that rose?), a stranger on the shore shouted: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” (Ouch! Who is this mean heckler on the shore?)

“No,” they sighed in reply.

“Cast the net on the right side,” he offered. It is not in any translation, I’ve ever read, but I imagine the disciples rolling their lives and retorting: “Don’t you think we tried that!” But, eventually, they did cast their nets on the other side. And, bam! They hauled in 153 fish. More than they could haul into the boat.

It’s in this moment of abundance that the proverbial scales fell from their eyes. John recognized: “It is the Lord!” Simon Peter, never one for half-measures, went all-in, throwing on his clothes and diving into the sea. (Only Peter would get dressed before swimming… I mean, was he worried about Jesus seeing him shirt-less?)

When the disciples reached shore, what did they find? Jesus. Already there. Already preparing a meal for them. Already sustaining them! Before he sent them out to feed others, he fed them first. But, we do not live by bread (or fish) alone. For then, came the deeper work of spiritual sustenance.

After breakfast, Jesus turned to Peter—remember he was the one who had denied Jesus three times—and in a series of questions that were as tender as they were cutting, Jesus asked Peter three times: “Do you love me?”

Each time Peter said yes, and each time Jesus responded not with “That's nice” or “I love you, too,” but with a commission: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.”

In this moment, we see more clearly that love to Jesus is not just a warm feeling. Instead, it is a choice, an action. And, in the three-fold affirmation of Peter’s love for Christ, we also discover that God’s love is about restoration. The denials of Good Friday morning are undone here at this brunch on the beach. And though we know that Peter still didn’t get it all right, his later mission and martyrdom exemplify a life turned toward the service of others. And here’s where this bonus scene of Good News challenges us. Jesus’ unbinding Peter and his denials is inextricably linked with a transformation—a difference in being and behavior.

The priest and author Barbara Brown Taylor once told a story about a seminary classmate from Lebanon who was curious why his classmates did not want this for themselves. He grew frustrated with the other students, saying: “All you Americans care about is justification! You love sinning and being forgiven, sinning and being forgiven. Has anyone ever heard of sanctification? Is anyone interested in learning to sin a little less?” These are hard questions, but appropriate ones. Don’t we want to be transformed? Don’t we want to live in integrity when it comes to the relationships of our lives?

The truth is the Risen Christ forgives us endlessly, like we saw in Christ Jesus’ repeated forgiveness of Peter. However, Christ also calls us beyond the hamster wheel of sinning and being forgiven. Christ calls us to be transformed. How do we know this? Well, look no further than our lesson from the Acts of the Apostles this morning.

Saul, the bloodthirsty persecutor, became Paul the Apostle. The adamant victimizer who held the cloaks of those who martyred Saint Stephen, became the evangelist who helped spread the Christian message to the Gentiles. Or, look again at Peter, the denier, who became the rock on which Christ built the Church.

Both were fed by the grace of God, but neither stayed the same. Their lives became acts of penance in the best sense — not as punishment, but as repair. They did not change because they feared God’s wrath (although I think Saul’s blindness certainly put the awe of God in him), instead they changed knowing the freedom of serving in Christ’s ministry. Their faith was not just a listless “I’m sorry.” It was a moving, new way of living: loving, feeding, tending, and serving.

This is what sanctification looks like. This is Life in Christ. This is Resurrection! So, what about us? Do we want this?

You may feel tired. Maybe your nets have been empty. Perhaps even returning to old sources of sustenance isn’t as fruitful. Maybe you’ve been stuck on that hamster wheel or out in lifeless waters. Perhaps you cannot break the old sinful ways. If any of this sounds like you, look to the shore. See the Risen Christ. He’s already readying a meal for you and for all. Let him feed you. Let him love you first. Yes, here at Christ’s Table, but also in prayer, in the study of scripture, in giving to others, in being loved on by this community, or countless other ways that God is yearning to meet you.

And then—because you are loved beyond measure, because no matter what you have done you have been forgiven—get up. Feed his lambs. Tend his sheep. And, love his flock (all his flock). Because the bonus good news isn’t just that Christ is risen. The bonus good news is that you are rising too. Amen.

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Still Wounded, Still Risen

The strangeness of Easter Evening gives me hope that even with all our scars God is still resurrecting us.

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles, Hoover, AL. A video of the message 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.

In today’s Gospel lesson, it’s the evening of the very first Easter day, and the disciples are hiding behind locked doors. They’ve heard the rumors from Mary. Some have seen the empty tomb. But they’re not shouting alleluias or organizing a celebratory, Paschal potluck just yet.

They are afraid. The world remains dangerous. Jesus may be risen, but Rome is still in charge. The pain is fresh. The wounds of crucifixion aren’t just his—they are theirs as well.

And then, Jesus shows up. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t wait for them to muster up more faith or get it together.

He just… comes. Through locked doors. Through fear. Through confusion. And what does he say?

“Peace be with you.” We love to exchange the peace of Christ at Holy Apostles—it’s long, luxurious, and extensive enough to greet lots of neighbors, but this peace of Christ from today’s Gospel account is on another level of magnitude.

Soon after sharing peace, Jesus does something even stranger. And, if we weren’t so used to hearing this story, every year on the Second Sunday of Easter, this detail would startle us: Jesus shows them his hands and his side. He doesn’t hide the wounds. He doesn’t erase the evidence. He leads with his scars.

It’s the wounded Jesus who brings peace. It’s the scarred Savior who breathes new life. And I wonder—if this is what resurrection looks like for Jesus, might it look this way for us too?

Because here’s the truth we often miss in our pastel-hued, chocolate-covered, alleluia-infused Easter celebrations: Resurrection doesn’t mean pretending the pain never happened. It simply means that the pain does NOT get the final word.

We get another glimpse of this in our reading from Revelation, where from the Island of Patmos, John writes to seven struggling churches. You may recall, John is not writing from a mountaintop retreat, he’s having an often-misinterpreted heavenly vision while being banished for his beliefs. He’s writing in exile, as he endures isolation on this isle, all because he believed in Christ. And yet, from these mystical margins, he gives us this breathtaking proclamation from God:

“I am the Alpha and the Omega… who is and who was and who is to come.”

In other words:
God was not just in the beginning.
God is not just waiting until the end.
God is right here in the middle with us.

Right here in the mess. In the wounds. In the doubts. In the uncertain future.

Right here in the lives of people like Thomas, who need to touch the pain in order to believe the promise.

Right here in communities like ours, who are trying to figure out what it means to be resurrection people in a Good Friday world. Which may lead us to wonder, where does faith meet practice? Because being a resurrection person doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine or turning away from grief, fear, or burnout.

In the world of behavioral health, there’s a concept called post-traumatic growth. It’s the idea that while trauma can shake us, it also can open us. That we don’t just bounce back—we bounce forward. With deeper empathy. With clearer priorities. With renewed purpose.

Now, this doesn’t happen instantly, and it is in no way guaranteed. But when people reflect, stay connected in community, and let themselves be transformed—not by the trauma itself, but by their response to it—growth becomes possible. As strange as it sounds, our woundings have the power to bless us with new gifts, skills, and perspectives.

Sounds a lot like Easter, doesn’t it?

Jesus didn’t rise with a brand-new body. He rose with wounds still visible. And yet, something in him—and in those around him—had changed. We, too, are invited to be people of growth. Not by avoiding our pain, but by abiding in the One who still shows up in the middle of it.

The question for us, my beloved, Holy Apostles, is: where do we go from here? Or perhaps, where do we grow from here?

Easter is not a one-day celebration. It’s a 50 day season—and more than that, it’s a way of life.

But it’s a strange way of life. Because it asks us to trust a God who still bears wounds. The Resurrection invites us to grow—even when we’re afraid. It calls us to serve—even when we feel unqualified. It beckons us to believe—not in certainty, but in God’s presence, for the One who was and is to come… is with us now.

So maybe our job this Easter season isn’t to have the answers. Maybe our job is to breathe deeply of the Spirit Jesus gives us. To be honest about our wounds and the wounds of the world. To show up behind locked doors and whisper peace. To walk with each other into a future we can’t see but believe is held by God.

Because, friends, Christ is still wounded… but he is also still risen. And so are we.

Amen.