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

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

Dear Holy Apostles,

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

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

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

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

And yet, names do matter.

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

And names matter for churches, too. 

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

The Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles.

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

Let’s break down our name for a moment.

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

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

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

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

And tonight, we remember Philip and James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

And still he says, “Show us.”

Show us God.

Show us clearly.

Show us plainly.

Show us enough that we can finally be satisfied.

Friends, that is not faithlessness. That is honesty.

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

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

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

The glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

That is what Philip is being invited to see.

That is what James bore witness to.

That is what the apostles proclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is the heart of this feast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Set apart and sent.

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

Where is God sending Holy Apostles with good news?

Where is God sending you?

To whom are we being sent?

What wounds are we being invited to tend?

What loneliness are we being invited to notice?

What mercy are we being invited to practice?

What truth are we being invited to speak?

What tables are we being invited to set?

What doors are we being invited to open?

The prophet Isaiah gives us an image for this discernment:

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

This is the way; walk in it.

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

Not always a thunderclap.

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

Sometimes it is a word behind us.

Sometimes it is a quiet nudge.

Sometimes it is a holy restlessness.

Sometimes it is a need we cannot unsee.

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

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

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

“Teach me, O Lord.”

“Give me understanding.”

“Incline my heart.”

“Turn my eyes.”

“Give me life in your ways.”

That is apostolic prayer.

Not “Lord, make us impressive.”

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

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

Make us the people you are sending us to be.

Holy Apostles, our name is not an accident.

It is a gift.

It is a memory.

It is a calling.

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

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

May the light of God shine in our hearts.

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

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

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

Faith in Action

Video of worship from the 16th Sunday after Pentecost at Holy Apostles, Hoover, AL

 

This sermon was preached on the 16^th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18B) at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. You may watch the video of this sermon by clicking here. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following: 

 

Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23
Psalm 125
James 2:1-10, [11-13], 14-17
Mark 7:24-37

 

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

Beloved friends, this passage from the Letter of James confronts us with a powerful challenge: Can faith without action truly save us? By this I mean, will an inactive faith bring us into the fullness of Life in Christ? In our lives, it can be easy to speak of faith, to talk about love and mercy, but as James reminds us today, words alone will not reveal the kingdom of God in our midst. This is not a comfortable teaching, as it calls us to account for our actions—or, as James suggests, for our inactions.

We see in James's vivid imagery the practice of favoritism that has, sadly, plagued humanity for centuries. James was the half-brother of Jesus and was tasked with leading the nascent Church in Jerusalem after Christ ascended to the right hand of the Father. James led this community of the Way through challenging times, like the Romans’ destruction of the Temple. As a pastor, James saw first-hand the social distinctions of his day.

The one with gold rings and fine clothes is invited to sit at the place of honor, while the one in rags was told to sit at our feet or to stand in the back. Do we not see this same behavior today? We may be subtler about it; however, in our assemblies, in our workplaces, even in our churches—do we not sometimes give deference to those who appear more powerful or more well-off while overlooking those whom we deem less significant?

I think about the countless ways our society divides us. Wealth, race, education, and social status all play into this ugly game. Almost thoughtlessly we comply with the competitive nature of our society. We buy into a myth, a lie that says scarcity is the way, that life is all or nothing, you either win or you lose. But James holds up a mirror to us: “Have you not made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?” God shows no partiality, and neither should we. In truth, James reminds us that God has chosen the poor to be rich in faith, heirs of the kingdom. If we dishonor them, we dishonor God’s own heart. This does not have to be our way. Instead of following the rulers of this world we may choose to follow Christ the King.

James urges us to fulfill Christ’s royal law. What’s the royal law? According to Christ Jesus: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” We already know this, but there’s something that may be harder to know or at least harder to admit: It’s easy to love the neighbor who looks like us, thinks like us, or lives like us. The real challenge, as James points out, is loving the neighbor who might make us uncomfortable—the one who calls us out of our bubbles of security and forces us to reckon with the brokenness in the world. This love requires us to go beyond sentiment; it calls us to action.

Fortunately for us in our hurting and broken world, there is a lot of action for us apostles to complete. And, today, right after this service you’ll have a host of ways to participate in apostolic action. Stick around today to participate in the Ministry Fair. There you can learn about and sign up for ways to grow your faith, to live out your faith, and to connect your faith with works that have the power to move us collectively from the feeling of love to the action of love.

James certainly knew about this need to have a living faith. Perhaps, that is why James was insistent that faith without works is dead. Now, make no mistake, he’s not saying that we earn our way into God’s grace through good deeds. No, our faith is a gift. But if we have received the gift of faith, how can we not respond by living it out in the world? How can we look at a person in need and simply say, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ without providing for their needs? And yet, even when we miss the mark here God’s grace abounds.

For at the heart of this passage stands the transformative power of mercy. James says, 'Judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.' What a radical idea! We live in a world that often values judgment—whether in the legal sense, in social media, or in our day-to-day interactions. We can even become judgmental of those who do not serve others or help those in need. But God’s law of liberty calls us to show mercy to all, to meet others where they are with compassion, to offer not condemnation but healing.

This is not easy. Showing mercy can be exhausting and uncomfortable, especially when it challenges our preconceived notions of who deserves help and who does not. However, if we are truly living into our faith, then mercy will rightly reside at the center of our actions.

Alongside mercy, we are called to embody our faith through works of justice and love. When we see someone in need, our response cannot be limited to mere words of well-wishing. If we have the means, we are called to act. If we do not have the means, we are called to find ways to support others in the work of mercy. This is how the world sees the Body of Christ alive and at work in the world—through our collective efforts to heal, feed, clothe, and love. They will know we are Christians by our love. I think there’s even a song about that.

This passage from James is as relevant today as it was when it was written. The gap between rich and poor, the divisions of class and status—these are still with us. But in Christ, we are called to a different way of being. We are called to tear down the barriers that divide us, to lift up the poor, and to live out our faith with integrity. Faith without works is dead because faith, at its heart, is about transforming the world in love. Not a love of sentimentality, but a love of sacrifice, of self-giving, and of service, especially to the least, the lost, and the unloved.

So, my beloveds, let us not be content with empty words. Let us not fall into the trap of favoritism, judging others by their appearances or status. Instead, let us live out Christ’s royal law of love. Let us be doers of the word, and not hearers only. Let our faith shine brightly, not only in what we believe but in what we do—how we love, how we serve, how we welcome all into the fold of God’s grace. May our faith be alive with the works of mercy, justice, and love that reflect the heart of God.

Life's Not Fair

“Life’s not fair.” Has anyone ever said that to you? I know I have heard it a few times throughout life and I bet you have too. Perhaps it was as a child when you got in trouble for doing something that your sibling had just done without punishment… “No one said life is fair.” Or, maybe it happened in school when your 10^th grade English teacher marked obviously correct grammar with red ink… “You know life is not always fair.” Then again, it could have been recently when the officer pick you out, even though everyone around you was speeding… “Life’s just not fair.”

In today’s Gospel lesson we hear a tiny sliver of one of my favorite passages in Holy Scripture that reminds me that life is not always fair. Often we hear the rest of this passage at funeral services. Jesus said to his disciples, “Do not be troubled.” Even though it was the night before he would die, Jesus spoke peacefully about the place where he was going, that he was preparing a place for them, and that there were many dwelling places there. At that moment Thomas blurts out a logical concern. When I hear about “Doubting Thomas” I think, “Sometimes life’s not fair.” For he was one who simply wanted a little bit more evidence, a little more from Jesus, and yet the Church has dubbed him the wayward cynic. Thomas spoke, “Lord we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus’ response has encouraged and perplexed the Church in the subsequent ages, “I am the way and the truth and the life.”

The Church picks on Thomas because in the cold black ink of Holy Scripture we can so easily scoff at his honest wonderings. Remarkably though one of the saints whom we celebrate today deserves a grander nickname of skepticism. Philip said to Jesus, “Lord, show us the Father and we will be satisfied.” Elsewhere in John he doubted that nine months wages would be enough to feed a swarming crowd. Life’s just not fair to Thomas, he lived a curious life and he became the doubtful one.

Returning to today’s Gospel lesson, Philip had been with Jesus all along–even calling his friend Nathanael to follow Jesus—and yet he missed the signs that pointed to Jesus’ complete connection with the Father. Maybe we can start a movement to call him Skeptical Philip or Oblivious Philip. And yet, something marvelous emerges in this interaction between Jesus and Philip, for I believe we discover that there’s another way of understanding “life’s not fair.”

Paul in his second letter to the Corinthians wrote, “Since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” I recently had the pleasure of hearing the author Anne Lamott speak about mercy. She said that when she hears the word mercy something in her changes. She feels a sense of release such that she no longer holds something against herself or someone. Just hearing the word mercy or merciful is enough to wake her up. When Skeptical Philip made his request to see the Father right after Doubting Thomas had wondered about the way Jesus was going, our Savior could have flown off the handle. He could have said, “Look you nitwits, I’ve said it before I’m too tired to say it now. Why don’t you get it already?! You’re all gonna abandon me anyway. What am I doing this for?!” Thankfully he did not! Instead, he responded with mercy.

As I look around here this evening and see friends from Good Shepherd, St. Timothy’s, St. Barnabas, and St. John’s I am encouraged because I know that like what Paul wrote, we are engaged in God’s ministry together. I also know that in each of our cities and communities we are experiencing divisive times, as we live with deep chasms in our nation. We may want to shut people out with whom we disagree and when asked why we aren’t acting with kindness say, “Well, life’s just not fair.” However, this will only worsen our collective wounds. Instead, what if we were to look through the lens of Christ? For Christ Jesus also believed that life was not fair, except he meant that in a merciful way.

He did not punish as evildoers deserved. He did not smack Skeptical Philip and Doubting Thomas on the backs of their heads. He did not send bolts of lightning upon his torturers. Instead, he was the way, the truth, and the life. You may ask, “So what does this mean?” I think it means that we too believe life is not fair.

Life’s not fair, but through the lens of Christ that means something different. In the “fair world” we rip out an eye for an eye, take a tooth for a tooth, and take a life for a life. We disrespect that other party because they disrespected us. And yet, life’s not fair. So, we wield the weapon of forgiveness instead of the venom of vengeance. We seek to serve Christ in all as we respect the dignity of all others including that one person we think we hate that we are thinking of at this second. Life’s not fair means that when faced with the corrupted and fallen powers of this world we act with the self-emptying love that Jesus showed on the cross.

So this is the ministry we’re called to engage in together. Paul described the difficulty of it when he told of the gods of this world distracting many such that they cannot see, hear, or experience this good news. Many remain captivated by the law of an eye for an eye, the law of a fair world. And yet, this is not good news, nor is it the way, the truth, and the life. In our ministry let us band together in mercy, so that we do not lose heart. Let us go forth from here and sharing the Good News of Christ who responds to us mercifully and who show us that life is indeed not fair.