St. Peter’s, Charleston - Epiphany 2025 - January 9, 2025 at 6 pm
Bishop Ruth Woodliff-Stanley shared a sermon for the first service in the next chapter of the historic St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Charleston (West Ashley), as it looks to reopen later this year. 
 
 
Epiphany is the time when we see the light. The light that is within us, and all around us. 
 
Writer Jarod Anderson says there is an old story about herons. “While hunting in the twilight shallows,” he tells the reader, “herons can produce a strange, luminescent powder, pluck it from between their feathers with their spear-like beaks, and sprinkle it on the dark water to attract fish.” 
 
It is only a tale. And yet, a tale that contains, as most tales do, the seed of holy truth.
 
For, herons are magical creatures. If you have ever studied one, you know this about them: they are patient. And, they notice things with much care and attention. Like the way the light moves across the water, how it shifts over the course of a day as schools of fish swim. How dark and light play together as the fish move toward the surface. How the moonlight shines down upon them as they fish. Herons notice these things. 
  
I once became a student of a particular heron. I spent a month at the beach. That was before becoming a bishop. This heron appeared my first day. A great blue heron, mere feet from me at the water’s edge. It would have been enough to get one day with this exquisite bird, but this heron occupied the same stretch of beach for the entirety of my stay. I watched this winsome creature ever so slowly walk a small patch of sand, back and forth, taking all the time a day contains.

Herons are mentioned twice in the bible—and only as animals not to consume. All we’ve got from scripture is—yeah, herons, don’t eat them! Not our most inspiring scriptural reference. I guess the gift is, they were mentioned. So we know they were around. 
 
I wonder if the Magi met magical creatures on their journey to pay homage to the Christ child. Magical creatures like the long beaked blue heron, moving lithely in the bulrush at dusk, making almost no noise, with movement so slow as to quiet even these seekers, accustomed though they were to strange new places. I wonder if they stopped to marvel at such a creature by starlight, even on their way to greet the king of kings born in a manger.
 
And I wonder, too, if Peter ever watched a heron while he was fishing. Or when he pondered how to love Jesus at dawn after breakfast on the beach. I wonder if he ever noticed a heron moving slowly. Or reaching into the water with long slender beak to pluck out a fish. I wonder, if in all his tempestuous, bold and blustery movement, Peter ever stopped to notice a heron carefully surveying the waterfront, with beady eye peering as if to the infinity point on the horizon.
 
And coming to our own story this night of a place called St. Peter’s, this parish was begun by a Charleston layman in response to the inspired preaching of a gifted circuit rider named Daniel Baker in what became known as the Beaufort revival of 1832. I wonder if that fiery circuit rider, blessed Daniel, might also have watched a grace filled heron standing like a still pool at the edge of the marsh as he prayed before delivering his sermons.
 
When he arrived in Beaufort, Baker faced a public severely divided. Andrew Jackson had just defeated Henry Clay in a sweeping presidential election victory. The enslavement of human beings was becoming utterly pervasive. South Carolinians were divided in their loyalties between Jackson and Calhoun because of the nullification crisis, the tax issue of their day. Tensions ran high in local communities; Beaufort was no exception. But when Baker came to preach, all of that changed. 
 
The Beaufort Gazette described his impact on the town in this way: “Politics were forgotten. Businesses stood still. The shops and stores were shut. The schools closed.”
 
The Gazette writer expanded: “Distinctions were laid aside. Christians of all denominations met and worshipped together, …and the cordiality of their mutual attachment was a living commentary on the great precept of their Teacher, 'Love one another.' Animosities long continued, were sacrificed; coldness and formality were forgotten. Our community seemed like one great family.”
 
Sounds like blue heron magic blanketed the Beaufort shores on those nights while Baker spoke. For all of his passion, it seems blessed Daniel slowed down enough to go deep. He made the connection with the flock. Luminescent preaching beckoned new souls to follow Jesus and bury old divisions.
 
The Gazette report is as good a description as I’ve heard of Beloved Community, that elusive phrase we have made our tag line in this diocese—we are, we say, Becoming Beloved Community. It is good to know our roots in this effort run deep, and that they run right through this historic parish of St. Peter’s. 
 
Like the people of Beaufort when Baker arrived, we are a divided community in this nation of ours. Racism, political loyalties, tax issues—it all has a familiar ring. We, like the spiritual ancestors of this parish, have need of the luminescent heron powder that can beckon weary souls to bury old divisions in light of a more compelling vision.
 
There is an intersection of two forces that yields wisdom—courage—like that of St. Peter, and Daniel Baker. And patience, like that of the great heron, standing almost motionless at water’s edge, watching, beckoning the fish. 
 
Here at the edge of our new beginning at St. Peter’s, we need both. The courage and the patience of our spiritual forbears. We are called to take bold steps. And, too, we are called to pay very close attention, to stretch the wingspan of our hearts, our souls, and our imagination, slowly. Together, these two spiritual gifts of courage and patience will yield a luminescence that can beckon others to this place.

A college professor, Megan Bergman, returned to her Carolina roots after the pandemic and bought a boat she donned The Night Heron. Seeking to learn the coastal waterways here, yearning for what she did not know exactly, she set out night after night in the inland waterways. Now, she returns each season. Paying attention to each bend, to every creature, she is becoming like the great bird for whom she named her vessel.
 
“It takes a certain determination to stay tethered to the lives and places that matter to you, to steer full-selved into the divine chaos, knowing that it will change on you as soon as you have your bearings,” she says.  “Migratory birds know this instinctually,” she continues, “and yet each year they chance the voyages between their different homes. The plan never fully comes together, but we take the risk of dreaming, again and again.” (Megan Mayhew Bergman)
 
You are a bit like those birds, chancing voyages between your different faith homes—coming here this night from various churches to lend your support, to discover what the Spirit might be doing here. I am grateful, as I know Rev. Courtney and Deacon Marionette are, that you have embarked on this adventure with us. 
 
I wonder, as we set out on this voyage, here in this holy place, if we might become night herons, people whose wisdom emerges carefully, attentively—yes, sometimes in eager action, like that of Daniel Baker whose revivals seeded this venture, and like that of Peter, this historic parish’s patron saint. But also in slowing down, in being mindful of each detail, watching the waterfront of this place, noticing when the fish surface and what they seek. I wonder, most of all, if we can take the risk of dreaming again and again, even and especially when our plans do not fully come together. For no venture such as this one is absent the occasional headwinds and stormy seas. And sometimes, the best dreams are dreamed in turbulent times.
 
Something mystical and holy is coming full circle in this place. From Peter wondering how to love Jesus at dawn on the beach, to a revivalist named Daniel Baker, to this very moment, we are coming round to where we began.
 
This is the night we see the light. The light that is within us, and all around us. 
 
You are the night herons of this holy place we call St. Peter’s. Risk dreaming again and again. Move as if you have all the time a day contains. Make this place luminous.
 
Blessed Epiphany.

March 29, 2024 - Good Friday - Grace Church Cathedral, Charleston
Watch the video of this service on the Grace Church Cathedral YouTube page at this link
​(the video should begin at her sermon, around 45:20)

Blessed Good Friday. The first thing I want to say to you is thank you. Thank you, Grace, for all of the prayers, notes, meals, flowers, and other gifts you have showered upon me and my family during my recent health crisis. Your love and care for me and for my family mean more than you know. Thank you, with all my heart. 
 
Two weeks ago, I made a trip to Louisville. Just for the day. On Breeze Airlines—an adventure for the back.  But, I learned…if you fly in the front where the padded seats are, it’s actually tolerable. 
  
My best friend since 5th grade, Kim, lives in Louisville. She faced the necessity of putting her husband of 37 years, Dave, in a nursing home. He has early onset Alzheimer’s. She needed my help. So, I made a one-day trip to help get him placed. 
 
It was a hard day, a scary day, a bleak day for Kim. On that day, after we had gone to the nursing home to secure his admission, we went to the hospital to prepare Dave for transfer. 
 
He still looks the same, smiles at me the same, has all his mannerisms. Only, it is not Dave I saw. Not the Dave I have known for nearly four decades, that is. In place of his old jokes and conversing and laughter at my jokes, dreaming about his next dive off some far flung coral reef, now, reflected in his eyes, there is this hard, barren ground we call Alzheimer’s.
 
It is a painful thing to see.
 
One night in the height of my recent health crisis, sitting in the parking lot of Walgreens, on our way home from a trip to the Emergency Room, George asked me, “What meaning do you think you will take from this experience?” I do have his permission to tell you this story, I promise. He’s right behind me in the choir; he can confirm I’m telling you the truth! Still in barely tolerable pain and waiting for Nathan to bring relief in the form of medicine from the pharmacy, I said, “Not yet, George. Ask me later, when I’m through the pain. I can’t reflect on it while I’m in it.” 
 
I daresay Kim and Dave would say the same thing about their crisis, were they here. It was a good question George asked, just not, perhaps, the right time for it.
 
George’s question is truly the central question of this day. What meaning are we to take from suffering—our own, and, Jesus’ suffering on the cross?
 
There are two words from Isaiah that I call to your attention to aid us in our efforts to understand the suffering we experience in this life. 
 
The first is a word Isaiah uses when describing the suffering servant, his symbol for post-exilic Israel. It translates as “bear” in English—“Surely he has “borne” our afflictions.” The Hebrew word neseuh means to carry a burdensome load, like a beast of burden would do. This is not something any creature would willingly undertake.
 
Suffering itself is borne, carried. It is not sought after. It is not to be glorified. I never, ever want to experience the relentless pain I had in January of this year prior to my surgery again. Kim and Dave do not want the pain of Dave’s disease and of their separation as he enters a nursing home. You do not want the pain you carry in this life. There is nothing good about it. 
 
There is nothing redemptive about the suffering of children in Gaza, nothing holy about the war in Ukraine, nothing good about what happened on October 7 in Israel, nothing redemptive about the bloodshed occurring in every war-torn region of this world. 
 
And, stay with me here—there is nothing good about Jesus’ hands and feet being nailed to the hard wood of the cross. Nothing redemptive about slow torture and suffocation. Michael+—don’t throw me out for heresy just yet. I am not suggesting that Jesus’ death did not usher in redemption. 
 
What I am suggesting, my friends, is that today is not about glorifying human suffering. Suffering is borne, not chosen. It simply is ours to carry in this world. And the reason for its presence in this world created by a good and loving God is a mystery that has eluded every theologian who has dared to approach the subject of theodicy. 
 
When we are in pain, all we want is out. “Let this cup pass from me,” is the prayer of every single person, including Jesus, who has ever known the kind of pain you do not believe you can survive. So, from the first word, we take an understanding that suffering is not a choice, nor is it a thing to glorify.
 
The second word, actually translates to two words in English--tender root. In Hebrew, the word is sarish—which means a sapling, a suckling—a frail yet verdant offshoot of the parent plant. “To whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?” the prophet asks. And the answer: “For he grew up before him like a young plant, and like a root out of dry ground.”
 
This image shows up numerous times in Isaiah, as he speaks of the resilience of the people after Exile.
 
A few weeks ago, we shared an evening here at Grace with two leaders from a nonprofit called Roots in Palestine. Founded out of grassroots conversations between Jews and Palestinians in the West Bank a number of years ago, Roots works to foster a just peace in the Holy Land through trust-building across lines of vast difference. 
 
Leaders in this movement work within a broken reality without accepting it. One of the most compelling things the two leaders shared with us—one a Jew and the other a Muslim, is that this work, which they carry on in the midst of unspeakable pain, is giving them hope that peace is possible, that from this hard, entrenched multi-generational conflict, a root can shoot forth with new life in the region, a life no one has yet fully imagined in which the stories of both peoples can thrive.
 
Sometimes, from the very center of that which we did not choose, that which we cannot bear, a verdant, irrepressible root appears. It comes not from the suffering itself, but rather it emerges as a lone witness to the fact that there is a force more resilient, more persistent, more enduring than our deepest agony.
 
Life itself. Even in death, life itself.

July 30, 2023 - Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12A)

There is a vault deep inside the Arctic Circle between Norway and the North Pole where open source software is being meticulously preserved for future generations in a decommissioned coal mine. This amazing repository, called the GitHub Arctic Code Vault, includes even the simple explanation of the purpose of a computer, anticipating the possibility of future life forms who have no awareness of what we use every day to connect to others in our world. 
 
And an arguably even more important treasure exists close to this technology vault. Near the GitHub repository is another underground storage space, the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. It contains seeds of millions of plants–a treasure chest that could allow the earth to repopulate much of the plant life we rely upon for sustenance and existence.
 
Talk about treasures hidden in fields! 
 
With these two projects, humanity could start anew, should the need arise.
 
These projects are the result of wisdom—the wisdom to imagine the possibility that humanity may, indeed, one day need to begin again.
 
Wisdom begins with the recognition there could be knowledge we lack. Now, you know I would be remiss to preach this Sunday without some reference to either Oppenheimer or Barbie. So, first from Oppenheimer. “No man should escape our universities without knowing how little he knows.” Or, the same point made with irony by the inimitable Barbie when she says to Ken (who was quite sure there was no knowledge he lacked to do his highly-important job called ‘Beach’—not lifesaver or marine biologist, or engineer, mind you—but just ‘Beach’), sure of his boundless knowledge, “And what a good job you do at the beach, Ken!” 
 
We have a lot of fear of not knowing. We are all Kens carefully hiding our ignorance at some time or other. 
 
On this weekend of the 49th anniversary of the Philadelphia Eleven, I am reminded of the video footage of a priest who declared at the time—“Women can be many things—president, a judge, a physician…but there is one thing a woman can never be,” he said. Well, Eunice…here we are! Indeed, we are all Kens at one time or another.
 
Knowledge is highly revered, worshipped even, in our culture. After all, knowledge is power, we say. We want to know, and that is not a bad thing. 
 
But knowledge apart from wisdom can put us in a perilous position. As Oppenheimer observed, we need to know how little we actually understand. When we think we know it all—we become, well, know-it-alls—which is a dangerous thing to be. The exploding field of AI brings this danger into sharp relief, as we consider the possibilities that our knowledge may already be outstripping our wisdom in ways that compromise our future.
  
It is the gap between our knowledge and our wisdom that Jesus addresses in today’s parables. In a world where knowing it all is the prized possession, Jesus is calling us to go on a quest to recover the pearl we have lost—our wisdom.
  
Wisdom is that priceless gift that allows us to appropriate knowledge for good, instead of for evil.

Because to be wise is to be humble about the vast fields of treasure we have yet to find. Wisdom is that place within us where we learn the practice of discovery, absent jaded hearts. Wisdom, you might say, is the kingdom of God within us.

It is our sacred duty, as followers of Jesus, to cultivate wisdom.Wisdom begins with our awareness of what we do not know.

Solomon is considered the wisest person in Hebrew Scriptures. How did this come to be so? In today’s Hebrew Scripture lesson, we discover that his wisdom began with an invitation from God, “Ask what I should give you.” Solomon knew what he did not know. He understood his need for wisdom. And that is what he asked God to give him. “And now, O Lord my God,” he says, “You have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people, so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil.”  
 
It was Solomon’s recognition that, even as a king—he was only a little child. He did not know, he told Yahweh, how to go out or to come in. This was the beginning of his wisdom. 
 
In the passage we heard today from Romans, Paul describes what happens when we do not know how to pray: the Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit. 
 
We live in an era of much knowledge—so much that it overwhelms us on a daily basis. Simply choosing a new kitchen appliance requires encountering more attention to data for that one choice than generations before us might expend in a lifetime of selecting means to tend to household chores. There are currently 9.1 million online retailers globally. And millions more local businesses. Decision fatigue is a real thing. 
 
In the midst of a pace our ancestors could not have comprehended with choices that stagger the mind, what does it  mean to seek the kingdom of God? Put another way, what does it mean to pursue the wisdom that comes from beyond our knowledge and capacity to generate and consume in this life?
 
Cultivating wisdom, which is another way of saying seeking the kingdom of God, begins at the edge of our knowing. It is to this edge that Jesus calls us.

Life inevitably brings us events we do not understand, much less desire or like. We are born to be attached to others, to this world, to our own lives. To love and be loved is our purpose. And that purpose necessarily involves suffering. When the suffering comes, it drives us to the edge. To the edge of our understanding. There, at the precipice of all we thought we knew, our most cherished companion is wisdom. If we try to live in the illusion that we know it all, when the trials come, that knowledge will surely fail us. But, if we make wisdom our companion, we will find we can begin again.
 
At the edge of all we thought we knew, the Spirit holds us in our unknowing with sighs too deep for words. There, we can begin again. 
 
St. Catherine’s, you know the importance of this edge. Even your name reflects the value of wisdom—named as you are after Catherine of Alexandria, the patron saint of librarians and philosophers—those who spend a lifetime being curious about the knowledge they lack. 

To follow Jesus in a world of certainty is to embrace the likelihood that there might be truths we had not even imagined that await us, buried deep underground like in the GitHub repository or the Svalbard Seed Vault, or tucked in a tiny seed, or hidden in an oyster bed.
 
As we confirm the newest seeker of the kingdom of God, Scot, this morning, I want to say—to you and to all who have come to this sacred community today, welcome to the field where we cultivate wisdom. Here, amid a culture where knowledge is power, welcome home to your not knowing. Welcome to your wondering, to your seeking, to you questions, to your curious mind. Welcome to the place where there is no shame in beginning again—where, in fact, to begin again every day is your sacred calling.
 
Here, in the beloved community of Jesus, we practice listening, wondering, seeking, and imagining that there is knowledge we have yet to discover. Knowledge that the Spirit has buried deep within us like scientists buried the github code vault and the seeds in the Arctic Circle.

Ours is the work not only of seeking wisdom, but of curating it, of caring for it, nurturing it, burying it to be discovered by those who come after us when they need it most.

May we rely upon the Spirit who groans with sighs too deep for words. May we tuck away treasures that those who come after us on this fragile earth may discover them and begin again. May we cherish our unknowing. May we seek the treasures another has placed within us. That finding them buried there with love, we, too, might find the courage to begin again.

June 4, 2023 - Trinity Sunday

Orion’s belt has always been my favorite constellation—because it is the main one I remember my father teaching me as a child. It was the one we most often looked for together. 
 
I learned years ago from a friend about Orion’s neighbor—Pleiades, which is her favorite. I’d never paid much attention to this constellation until my friend shared some interesting perspective about it. She told me it’s a cluster of 800 stars located about 410 light years from Earth—named for the seven brightest stars in the cluster that represent the mythological seven sisters whom Zeus made into doves so they could fly away to escape Orion. Of course, Orion ended up right next to them in the night sky…so much for running away!   

Pleiades also has a car named for it, the Subaru—which is the Japanese word for Pleiades. If you haven’t ever noticed, take a look at the logo on the next Subaru you see—it’s a stylized rendition of this constellation. Pleiades is celebrated in most every culture. We hear the author of Job speak of both my favorite and my friend’s favorite constellations in this question to Job: “Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades?  Can you loose the cords of Orion?”  (Job 38:31) 
 
The most interesting thing my friend told me is this—you see stars that form Pleiades most clearly when you look away from them to their neighboring stars—when you look at the neighboring stars, then, Pleiades comes into sharp relief out of the corner of your eye. Try it sometime; it really does work.
 
Pleiades comes into focus kind of like we do. When someone loves you—really sees you for who you are and calls that you into play somewhere—like at work or home or in a circle of friends—then, particularly then, you come into full sharp relief. But when you are left unknown, uncelebrated, unseen, you are like a star out of focus—a dim, fuzzy light at best. We need others to illumine our own lives. In other words, our essence is relationship. 
 
Today is Trinity Sunday in the Church. In the doctrine of the Trinity, we assert that the Divine is both one and many in a co-eternal relationship of love. As with Pleiades, the essence of the Trinity is best discovered not by focusing on each individual person of the Trinity but rather by focusing on the power and mystery of the relationships among the persons.
 
The Trinity is like the chemical reaction that happens in the night sky to create what we call stars. Through the dynamic relationship among the three who exist in a purposeful unity, the heavens and the earth were created. Through the dynamic relationship among the persons, the Son was raised from the dead. Through the dynamic relationship among the three, the fire of the Spirit launched the church into the world—bringing us to this very day.  
 
Through that same dynamic relationship, you and I engage our baptismal promises and take them on in an even more seasoned way in Confirmation. 
  
Now, in these days as our beloved neighbors and children and families fall in the streets from the ravages of gun violence, as our world reflects the agony of unjust wars, as our communities struggle to address the needs of those without shelter or care, as the fabric of our democracy frays and unravels, we need to lean into the dynamic power of the Trinity. 
 
You already lean into this power, Epiphany. I know that about you.
 
Threads of the holy lives here that connect to one another and hold each other up, are in your DNA—birthed as you were by a millenary weaver of hats. You are a Trinitarian people.
 
To those of you being confirmed, received, and those reaffirming your vows this day, remember always, these sacraments are relational. By them, together with this community, you proclaim—this is who I am. I join the community of Christians all around the world in standing for love where there is pain, suffering, and evil. We are a relational people. 
 
As baptized and confirmed members of the body of Christ, we find our intimacy with God through our relationships with one another.  Like seeing Pleiades.  We do not know God by ourselves in a vacuum; we know God in community. 
 
Stargazers know of a phenomenon called the parallax. I often think of it when contemplating the Trinity. The parallax is a way of seeing in which multiple divergent perspectives interact to form a more complete view of something—like the two eyes we have give us depth perception. This phenomenon hints at the strength we find in the Trinity—three perspectives that give added depth to one reality. It is this wisdom that compels us to lean in even toward those with whom we disagree. For, in those relationships, we gain a more complete view, a deepened perception of truth. 

To be Trinitarians, we must commit to be in relationship with those with whom we agree and those with whom we disagree. This does not mean we have to make peace with injustice. It does mean we do not have the liberty of demonizing the other, writing them off forever. There are those who practice evil in this world; they are hard to love. Yet, even so, the biblical witness is clear; no one is beyond the saving embrace of Jesus. On any given day, even the worst sinners can repent and begin anew.  And our being in relationship with those folk, sharing the strong love of Christ, makes that possibility even more likely.  
 
Mature Christian life involves engaging differences with the conviction that as we do, the fullness of God’s truth and beauty will come into sharper relief. If there is one means by which we can fulfill the great commandment we heard in today’s gospel, it is by creating communities of faith that foster true, deep, courageous relationships. Our state, our nation, our world, need to rediscover the capacity to build relational communities marked by truth, compassion, and courage. By these virtues, the world will come to see Jesus Christ and to know his love.  
 
So, beloved ones, seek and serve Christ in all persons. Lean in to the holy relationships baptism gives to you and confirmation matures among you. By doing so, you will carry the good news of Jesus into the whole wide world.  
 
Carry with you the truth the stargazers have always known. The Pleiades is best seen when we look at her neighbor. Jesus the Christ is best seen when we look at ours.

April 23, 2023 - Third Sunday of Easter

Easter week, Nathan and I had the chance to get away. While we were at the beach, I read a novel called Still Life by Sarah Winman—some of you may know it. Set mostly in Italy just after World War II, it tells the story of unlikely encounters and how these encounters lead to adventures that change the lives of the characters. One such meeting happens between the central character Ulysses Temper, a soldier, and Arturo Bernadini, whom Ulysses meets initially, on a rooftop, where Arturo’s life is in immediate, grave danger. 
  
Skillfully and with no small risk to himself, and—without the benefit of a common language, Ulysses gets Arturo off the roof and down to safety. Afterwards, the two men sit in the kitchen of Arturo’s home. There, they make simple conversation, despite sharing no common language.
  
They view a photograph of a work of art still hanging in a church in Florence today—a piece depicting the moment Christ’s body was taken from the cross. After viewing this art, and considering what has just transpired—the rescue of Arturo by Ulysses, the two men stay at the table. 
 
 Arturo removes some floor tiles covering a hidden pantry and pulls out a bottle of wine, a candle, and a bit of cheese. Ulysses pulls out a can of ham and puts it on the table. Arturo begins to cry. “It’s only ham,” Ulysses says. But of course, the tears were not about the ham.
 
For two hours, they pour wine, eat cheese, and talk. For those couple of hours, time is suspended. Winman tells us, “They listened with hearts instead of ears, and in the candlelit kitchen three floors up in an old palazzo, death was put on hold. For another night or day or week or year.”
 
Up in an old palazzo, death was put on hold for another night, or week or year. And, in its place, life. Life, and hope for the adventure that lay ahead.
 
Such was the experience of the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Like Arturo and Ulysses, these friends had just experienced the trauma of crucifixion. And, then, the confusion of what happened in the night—a stone rolled back, a body missing, rumors he was alive, things they thought they had seen but could not make sense of.
 
Now, as they walk to get to a different place, where perhaps they can clear their minds and try to absorb recent events, they are joined by a person they do not recognize. He asks them questions about what has happened. They tell him everything. And then, in response, he tells them the story of their ancestors, their own story. As they listen, things begin to make more sense.
Not knowing, still, who he is, they nevertheless want him to remain. So, they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”
 
Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.
–Luke 24:29
 
The way they implore Jesus to stay with them on the road to Emmaus reminds me of a song that comes back to me during moments I don't want to see end:
 
The clock on the wall says it's time to go
but I know my heart really wants you to stay a while
Hear the seconds ticking by but outside the world is still
So before you have to go
Stay a while with me.
–Music and Lyrics by Carol Maillard
 
To me, this song is an Emmaus road lullaby. It’s about staying in a moment. Usually, it’s a moment we don’t really understand yet don’t want to have end. In such moments, if someone truly communes with us, if they manage to stay present to us there, then death, sorrow, and fear— are, indeed put on hold. And, in their place—with things as simple as a jug of wine, a crust of bread, a bit of cheese, a flicker of candlelight, comes life. And possibility.  
 
When his friends urge him, Jesus stays with them. And it is in the moments that follow, sitting at table, breaking bread, in those moments, their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.
 
In moments when we are disoriented, by loss, by tragedy, or perhaps by strange new life, in those moments, like Arturo in the novel, like Jesus’ friends in the gospel, we need time across the table with one who sees us, with one who loves us as we are, with one who tells us what we need to understand. Such disorienting moments can be the precursor to new life, to a new possibility, to new adventure.
 
So, look for the Emmaus road. 

It is the road for those who are disoriented, those who are curious, those who long for new adventure beyond loss. 
 
On the Emmaus road, you find that most adventures worth taking begin just beyond what you do not understand. 
 
Any adventure worth embracing involves some degree of being disoriented.
 
It is when we have lost the compass that we find the Emmaus Road.
 
Times when we are confronted with mysteries that bring us sorrow and mysteries that bring us strange, unfamiliar hope. Our Emmaus Road times  happen infrequently, but when they do, we best pay attention.
 
This morning, I have the distinct honor of confirming, receiving and reaffirming vows with those of you who have chosen this path today. As you receive the power of the Holy Spirit this morning, the person of the Trinity who ushered in the new adventure for Jesus’ disciples, remember the first questions, the first disorienting moments that led those disciples to discover their new adventure began on the Road to Emmaus. So, in your own lives, seek the Emmaus road. Seek it when you are unsure, when you are afraid, when you are puzzled or confused. 
 
Remember, in those times,  to listen with your heart. Remember to entertain strangers and to become curious. Remember to open yourselves. For it is in such times when you are open that possibility can take root. It is in such times that your adventures will begin.
 
To the youth who are being confirmed, listen. I pray your lives will be filled with joy—so much joy. And, I know, too, that your life will bring hard times—because, that’s the way it is in this world. The beauty and the pain are intertwined. What I want you to see today is this community—all around you. These people who greet you every week—who call you by name, who laugh with you and listen to you and inspire your questions, your hopes, and your dreams—these people are your people. 
 
This community is here for you—today, and for the rest of your lives. And, in those times when you feel disoriented, when you’ve experienced loss and even death—you can turn to this community. You can call up a priest or a lay person—or a bishop for that matter—from wherever in this world you are—and say, “Stay with me. Talk with me, Listen with your heart to me.” You can ask us to stay with you, a little bit longer.  Invite us to walk your Emmaus Road with you. 
 
And to you who are further along in life’s journey, if you think you must go it alone with all the burdens of this world, you do not. If you wonder who else will share the mystery of hope in your times of expectant joy, look around you.
 
Many years after Ulysses saved Arturo’s life then broke bread with him in his kitchen, he received a letter. “If you are reading this letter,” it said, “I am dead.” “Nine years have passed since our brief acquaintance. and the image of you seated across the table has led me across them all. Did I change my life sufficiently to reflect kindness you showed me that strange afternoon in August,” Arturo wonders. “I don’t know. I hope so. In my small way, I think maybe I did.” And then, Arturo says, “No single act of generosity remains in isolation—The ripples are many.”
 
I have been here only a short while as your bishop. But, I’ve been here long enough to discover that here, in this beloved place we call Grace, there is real community. Community that reflects resurrected life—life, that is, beyond death and its grip on us. A new kind of life—of the sort Arturo and Ulysses discovered. Of the sort the disciples and Jesus discovered on the road to Emmaus. This new life is resurrection.
 
And resurrection entails discovering what you least expected—huge, immovable stones rolled away, death defied, people understanding each other with no common language, morsels of life hidden in pantries under floor tiles, curious encounters that turn out to be sightings of the divine. Here, we practice such resurrection.
 
Here, no single act of generosity remains in isolation—the ripples are many. Infinite, I might add. 
 
And so, as I lay my hands on those saying "yes" to this strange and beautiful journey, remember, wherever you roam, always, the road to Emmaus is yours. Always, this community is at your side, ready to ready to stay a little bit longer with you when you need us, ready to lift the floor tile, find a jug of wine, a crust of bread, and a flicker of candlelight to offer you at table. Ready to put death on hold for another night, or week, or year. And ready to help you find, in its place, at the table of the risen Lord, life and hope for the adventure that lies ahead. 

March 5, 2023 - The Second Sunday in Lent

When I gave birth to our first-born child, it was a long labor. Twenty-three hours long, to be precise. At the end of the whole ordeal, when George had presented himself to the world, and I, too, was presentable, my brother ushered my father into the birthing suite.

Now, because it was a complicated birth, there was a team of 11 medical personnel in the room. Not to mention my sister and my sister-in-law. With a cooler. For snacks. In case the thing went on—which it did.

So, there is this priceless footage of my father taking in the scene. As he scans the birthing suite, sees the room full of people in white coats, the monitor, my own doctor, our family members, myself, and a very new George, as he sees all this, his facial expression goes from a smile to an open-mouthed gasp. As he walked back down the hall, he pronounced to my brother, “No more babies in my lifetime.” As if that were up to him. 

Sometimes, we are just not ready for new birth. It’s messy. It’s scary. And, it’s mysterious.

Nicodemus was not ready for the new birth Jesus described to him. How could he have been? It made no sense. For an old man to go back into the womb. What did that even mean? What he wanted was eternal life. He did not go into the night seeking new birth, but rather, to extend the life he already had. Or perhaps to deepen the spiritual quality of his life.

But, the only way, Jesus told him, to extend his life was to be born again. It was a heavenly thing, Jesus said, not an earthly thing.

John 3:16 is one of the most over-exposed portions of the gospel we can find. Like a photograph left too long in the developing solution in the old days before digital cameras, this gospel has been exposed to the point at which its original image can hardly still be discerned.

To hear this text, we must peel back the layers of overfamiliarity with it. And approach it with wonder. 

There is a painting of this scene between Nicodemus and Jesus painted by an artist in Cameroon, Africa. In it, Jesus, robed in red, responds to Nicodemus. The most notable aspect of the painting for me is the light. It moves across Jesus’ face and upper arm, making the unseen candlelight evident.

I appreciate this detail because it brings the viewer back with one glance to the initial context of the exchange, namely a secret meeting in the night by candlelight. A meeting for the purpose of seeking wisdom.

Little is known about Nicodemus. He appears only three times in the New Testament. Here, then later to argue that Jesus deserved a trial before being condemned, and finally, as the one to anoint Jesus’ body at death.

While Nicodemus, a learned man, could not risk meeting this simple rabbi in broad daylight, his fascination drove him to seek Jesus out in the secrecy of the darkness. In the flickering candlelight, he seeks to understand the mystery that is pulling him toward this controversial teacher. So, what does Nicodemus glean?

“For God so loved the world that he gave.” Had Jesus ended there, it would have been enough, we might argue.

The foundation of this text is there in the first phrase. “God so loved the world.” So much that he gave. Jesus tells Nicodemus that at the heart of the Divine human relationship are two things: love and gift.

And the next phrase--"his only begotten Son.” Not just any giving. “Begotten” is a phrase used in both Greek philosophy and New Testament writings to mean, at the very least “unique.” God gave, then, that which could not be repeated or replaced from within his own being. The most intimate gift.
“That whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

This is the tricky part, which has come to mean, if you give some sort of assent to the premise that Jesus is God’s only son, you will live forever. Otherwise, you will perish. And more recently, has been added—and you’ll burn in hell.

The context for this verse appears two verses earlier when Jesus says, “Just as Moses lifted up the servant in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up.” This is an allusion to Numbers 21 where the serpent bit the Israelites after they complained. When they looked up at the bronze serpent, they could live. Jesus on the cross will become the completion of this image.

Belief in him has to do with keeping one’s eyes fixed on him in the midst of persecution, trusting that his gift of himself can save you. The image of the serpent helps us get this because the Israelites were saved, as long as they were looking upon it. This isn’t like holding your breath in a tunnel—where, if you let up for one second, you’ve lost the dare. It is, rather the path of giving oneself, one’s full being and attention, to that which transforms one in the midst of a real challenge. This understanding of belief is akin to being focused, being intentional.

There may not be any single thing more important to our spiritual health than developing the capacity to keep our eyes on God in the center of real challenge.

Three years after my father visited the birthing suite and declared, “no more babies in my lifetime,” I went to see him. “Daddy,” I said, “I’m afraid I must defy you.” “What?” he asked. “Well, three years ago, you declared no more babies could be born in this family in your lifetime. And, I’ve got to tell you, another one is on the way. And I want you to be here for the birth.” Eight months later, John was born. And my father lived to see him into this world.

We do not control birth. You and I cannot control God’s gift of a new spiritual birth any more than my father could control another physical birth in his family.

It comes as gift—a gift from above. And, it comes not in a neat package but rather in the center of hard labor, of messes, in the center of our fear and unknowing. There, where we are cracked open. In those places, when we keep our eyes on God and our hearts attuned to his love, we receive the gift of new life.

We do not see Nicodemus cracked open on this night when he questions Jesus. I imagine he was not entirely unlike my father—just wanting to declare that this new birth of which Jesus spoke was not going to happen in his lifetime. 

But there comes another night, one where he again meets Jesus in the darkness. This time, he meets Jesus’ lifeless body in the tomb. With spices and oil, he anoints him. There, in his grief, in his wondering what would happen next. There, in the night, tending the body of this one he had come to love, perhaps this is when the words Jesus had spoken to him on a night long ago finally made sense. When we meet our grief with full presence and open hearts, we make room for new life.

There are times, like Nicodemus had in his first encounter with Jesus, when we want to declare: “This makes no sense. Times when we want to say, like my father said, “no more babies in my lifetime.” Or, put another way, “no more birth.” It is simply too messy, too much risk, too hard. 

But, it doesn’t work that way. We are born again not because we are ready, but in spite of our disbelief, our fear, our resistance. Still, God’s new birth breaks in, shattering our preconceived ideas, upending our orderly lives.

You, my beloved friends, know a thing or two about being present in the nighttime, wondering how on earth a new birth could be possible after such loss and division. You have walked with courage in the night for many years. You have loved this church; you have grieved the division in this community. You have, truly, anointed the body of Christ, grieving the death of so much that could have been.

And I wonder if through your loving, tender anointing, even through tears, through anger, through messiness and confusion, I wonder if through your tender presence to this community you love so well, you have found the new birth Jesus gives to all who love him.

“For God so loved the world that he gave.” Had Jesus ended there, it would have been enough. For he has loved us. And he has given, more than we could ever ask or imagine. And you have done the same. Here, for years.
​
But he does not stop there. He goes on… “He gave his only begotten son.” That which was most precious to him. You have walked in this way, giving what is most precious to you, for so very long. Even in the center of your own pain, still you have showed up to this community and you have given.
So, I want to say as we worship together for the first time in this beautiful historic church, keep doing what you are doing. Keep loving this world of yours as God loves you, and keep giving. And know, that while you may wish to declare in the spirit of my father—“no more babies in my lifetime!” No more messy birth—be forewarned. The Holy Spirit will defy that wish. And He will give you the birth from above over and over again in this beautiful place we call Cheraw.

Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent offered at St. Mark's, Port Royal (February 26, 2023) and at Porter-Gaud School (March 2, 2023)

One of my favorite memories from our son George’s toddler years was an afternoon when things got very quiet in our house. Now, when things are too quiet and there’s a toddler living with you, that’s not good. So, I went hunting. “George, where are you?” I called. No answer. I ascended the stairs and opened the door into our library. There, sitting on the floor cross legged, buck naked, was George. Scattered around him were tiny silver wrappers. Hershey’s kisses wrappers. A whole bag’s worth. George looked at me, his face and hands covered in chocolate. He said nothing. He looked at me, eyes wide open. He waited to see what would happen next.
 
Welcome to Lent. Welcome to the wilderness. The place where God sees our moments of abandon, our moments of ache, our moments of questioning. The place where we wait to see what will happen next.
 
In our gospel lesson today, we find Jesus in the wilderness. There, away from all the usual props of life, Jesus is tested. He stares down Satan, who tempts him with all manner of shortcuts and diversions from his life purpose. Turn these stones into bread, hurl yourself from this cliff, kneel down and worship evil.
 
Just before the wilderness, Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan River. And God said, as Jesus rose out of the water, “Behold, my son, my beloved one. With him I am well pleased.” Then, right after this intimate moment between the Father and the Son, Jesus is hurled headlong into the wilderness.
 
One moment, Jesus is shining and full of promise at his baptism and the very next moment, Jesus is tested, challenged, in the wilderness with temptation lurking.
 
There is a beautiful whole between these two stories. In the first, story, baptism tells us where we begin this journey. It is the moment when we are marked by the Holy Spirit, sealed as Christ’s own forever. A moment when the people we love are so proud of us Then, the wilderness is where we test the strength of that love. It’s where we wonder if they really do still love us, now that we have failed them; now that we have done this thing, or not done that thing they expected of us. Wilderness is where the love becomes real. 
 
Does that mean God designs Satan’s challenges as a proving ground for love? I don’t believe that’s how it works. I do believe there is freedom in this world, and that includes freedom for the evil forces to do their worst. God allows that freedom. 
 
It is normal to doubt God in moments when we feel the force of that evil. It is human to doubt. God engages doubt. God will wrestle with us, as he did with Jacob. God will meet us in the nighttime when we question, as he did Nicodemus, God will greet us in our deepest sorrow, as he did Mary Magdalene. God is strong enough to handle our doubts.
 
When we see events like the war in the Ukraine, the shootings in our own streets and in our schools, the hatred that takes a myriad of forms around our globe, the illnesses that ravage people we love, the cost of mistakes people make, the arguments in our own families—it all can make us wonder if there is any reason for hope.
 
In the season of Lent, we intentionally reflect on these untamed parts of human life—the places where we feel scared, abandoned, threatened, unsafe.
 
Sometimes we try to tame Lent.  We worry only over what we will give up or add to our lives. Chocolate being at the top of many lists. And some people add disciplines—they pray more, or study the bible daily, or exercise regularly, or eat brussel sprouts—unless you’re like me and already love them—then, it doesn’t count. Or some people commit to do something helpful for someone in need each week. 
 
All of these can be good things to do in this season. But, not just as exercises in self restraint or willpower. Our Lenten disciplines do serve a purpose, but they are not just another form of New Year’s resolutions. 
 
Giving up things or adding mindful disciplines in our lives serves a deeper purpose. They help us return to what really matters. Like when you stop everything to go for a long walk with a friend, or to go sit by the sea with your family. 
 
Sometimes we go to the wilderness by choice, through our disciplines. Other times, like Jesus, we are hurled there against our will. Like, when tragedy strikes. Like, when sin or grief overcome us. No matter how we get there, in the wilderness, we find what really matters.
 
For, in the wilderness, we face the hard things without distraction. And the hard things bring us back to what matters most. 
 
In our family, we’ve had some hard things this past year—loss that has brought us to our knees, illnesses that threaten the lives of our beloveds, griefs that are hard to carry. These things have indeed brought us back to what matters most. And we’ve found what matters most is really quite simple. 
 
Simple, but not easy. What matters most is expressed well at Jesus’ baptism. “Behold my beloved. With him I am well pleased.” Cherishing. Cherishing is what matters most. It’s another way to say “unconditional love.” To be cherished, and to cherish. This is what we were made for.
 
In the wildernesses of this life, there is real danger. It is possible to get lost there. But it is also the place where we can find our way back. Back to what really matters.
 
It’s not in the moments of celebration and victory that we return to love most readily. It is, rather, when we are broken, when we are caught up short. Those are the moments when, like a toddler with a room full of chocolate wrappers, our eyes widen, our pace slows, and we wait to see what happens next.
 
On that afternoon in our library, when I found George, here is what happened next. Just after he looked at me, with eyes wide open, I looked back at him. My eyes grew wide, too, and then, I smiled. The beauty of that child, even and perhaps especially in his moment of abandonment to that chocolate, overcame me. And I cherished him. As he saw my smile, he began to smile. He realized all was well. This momentary giving way to the chocolate. It was okay. While the aftermath was not pretty, we both knew in that moment of our smiling at each other that we could work with the pile of wrappers, the stomach full of chocolate, and the moment of abandon that had led to the scene. 
 
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m me. Not God. Which means, for every story like this one, there are 10 more stories when I lost it. When what he got was not a smile, not cherishing.
 
We are, you and I, human. We are not capable of cherishing one another every single time we find ourselves in the wilderness, or facing a floor full of kisses’ wrappers. But, here is the beautiful thing: we are becoming more capable every day. That is what this Christian journey is all about—becoming capable of cherishing one another like God cherishes us.
 
The wilderness is where we learn how to love. It is a place of loss, a place where we doubt and rail and wonder if we are alone. It is there, at the wild edge of this life, that we return to what matters most.
 
So, welcome to the wilderness. May you face the things that scare you, may you sit with the grief you bear, the failure you fear, the questions you bring. 
 
And, sitting cross legged, may you be greeted by the One who loves you just as you are, smiling at you. Cherishing you. And, in the center of all of it, in the very center of your whole beautiful, messy life, may you, with eyes wide open, smile back.

February 19, 2023 - The Last Sunday after the Epiphany

Good morning, St. John’s! What an absolute joy it is for me to be with you today! I’ve been so eager to get here. Your priest, the Rev. Canon Calhoun Walpole, better known to all here and across our diocese as Callie, is a gift and a blessing. Callie, I am so profoundly grateful for you. Your gifted, faithful, tireless leadership in the Herculean task of setting St. John’s on solid footing as we welcome back this historic parish and prepare for a bright and bold new season here is truly a labor of love. And, to each and every one of you who have given of your time, your talent, your treasure—day in and day out—thank you. Whether you are very new here, have loved this place for many years, or somewhere in between, your presence is a gift.
 
The work you all have done together already in the months since you began this season in June is so inspiring. Already, you have vibrant ministries, already the campus looks fabulous, already you have welcomed newcomers and longtime members into the fold here at St. John’s. 
 
As some of you may know, last week, I traveled to the Dominican Republic. Our longstanding and strong relationship with the Diocese of the Dominican Republic is due in large part, as are many good things in this diocese, to the leadership and enduring commitment of Callie. She and others in our diocese have nurtured this relationship for decades. And you all generously hosted Bishop Moisés and his wife Jeanette here just a few months ago. I am so glad to be stepping into the work with all of you and eager to take next steps in furthering our partnership there.

There is a custom in the Diocese of the Dominican Republic of a procession through the local community immediately preceding the Opening Eucharist for Convention. It is quite a strong public witness. Children come into the street to join the procession. People come onto their porches or balconies seeking a blessing from the bishops in procession. Folks wave and greet one another. It is a scene teeming with life, evidence of the profound impact the church is making in local communities across the country.

And, it was hot. Really hot. We marched for over an hour in the heat on dusty roads, fully vested. I realized, by the end of that hour, what a wimp I am. The procession made its way into the ministry center in San José. Stepping into that air conditioned building was quite a relief.

I couldn’t help but think a bit about the Transfiguration. The whole afternoon was, for me, a mountain top experience. But one moment will stay with me for a long while. As we moved through the streets greeting the people, I noticed on one particular porch, a small girl, her teenage older sister, and their abuela, I believe—their grandmother. 

I smiled, waved, and gave a simple greeting. The little girl and I had a moment of smiling at each other. I waved to her. She waved back most enthusiastically. The older girl, presumably her sister, did the same. Then, the matriarch, likely their grandmother, looked me directly in the eye, smiled, put her hand on her heart, as if to say, “thank you.” It is a gesture I love and often use myself, as I believe it translates most everywhere. I returned the same greeting to her, putting my hand over my heart. Perhaps she was glad for the exchange between the youngest child and me. Perhaps she was reflecting her appreciation of l’Eglesia Episcopal and the many services they provide in her community. Perhaps she was simply enjoying the moment of a parade. I’ll never know. And it doesn’t really matter. 

What matters is that in that moment, for just that moment, all the barriers that naturally exist between us fell away. And we communed together through one simple gesture. She, a wisdom figure who has certainly endured things I shall never know. Her two young ones, who graced me with their beaming lovely smiles. And I, the newcomer to their beautiful land, soaking it in, receiving the gift. It was a moment when the simplest exchange became luminous. 

Today, we heard the story of the transfiguration. Like our band of disciples on the streets of Santo Domingo, Jesus and his closest friends had been on a hot, dusty path up the mountain side. They got to the top, exhausted, I imagine, from the pace and public life they kept. Then, came this moment. A moment when Jesus’ closest friends stand at the top of this mountain and watch Jesus change. Jesus dazzles, the text says. 

And then, Moses and Elijah appear, representing the law and the prophets—or the boundaries of a life and the promise of a life, we might say. And Peter wants to stay there—to build booths and live there. But he didn’t get to do that. He was kind of missing the point.

Because the story is not primarily about savoring the light, much as we may want to. The primary tension in the story is the perennial struggle we face to see beyond our limits—beyond the dust that is who we are, as we will proclaim on Wednesday—to our promise—to the luminous, dazzling beauty, often eclipsed from our sight, but always right here, within us, that is also who we are.

Transfiguration is the experience of seeing the light beyond the dust and remembering there is more, so much more, than we have come to believe there is—within us and all around us. On one particular hot day, Jesus’ closest friends receive the gift of remembering. 

For one brief, shining moment, the veil was pulled back. And they saw the truth. They dazzled. The light, the beauty, the glory shone through, past the dirt, the exhaustion, the discouragement. 

It is always there, this luminous beauty. Only, most of the time we miss it, preoccupied as we are with our worries, with the many demands we face, with our grief, our uncertainty, with our complex lives in this world. The beauty gets eclipsed. 

But, when we follow Jesus, particularly up the hard climbs, as you are doing, particularly on the hot, dusty roads that require our full bodied response—cleaning gutters, scrubbing kitchens, feeding hungry children, offering shelter to others, staying by the side of those in pain, building community—particularly when we do these things, we get moments. Moments when, just briefly, we see behind the veil. Someone puts her hand on her heart as the beautiful abuela did in our parade. Someone looks you in the eye. And you know, you know you are in the presence of holiness.

Here, in this historic parish, you are surrounded by the heavenly hosts of saints who have gone before you to prepare the way. People like the faithful lay members who with dedication and generosity rebuilt the parish after the great fire that swept across the island in 1864 and decimated this holy place. And people like many of you who now tend this place and care for it with acts of generosity and labors of love. 

I want to take a moment to speak directly to those of you about to be confirmed, received or to reaffirm your faith. 

I want you to remember, every day, that you are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. You may not see them, but they are here. In the walls, in the stories, in the sacred ground on which we stand. And, too, all around you—are living saints. People who walk with God in a myriad of ways and who will walk with you, if you let them.

They are present with you today, and they will surround you, uplift you, and illumine your path for the rest of your lives. You are not alone. 

So, in times of trial, of discouragement—when your way seems unclear, when you are weary—look to them. Let them carry you through the fires that inevitably come your way. Just as those who have gone before you here did in their day. Behold the light. And then, share it. Take it out with you. In real and tangible ways in this community. This is what it  means to be church. 

The way of Jesus is not an easy path. He will lead you on hot dusty roads, up steep mountain paths, to serve those with needs that may overwhelm you at times, to forgive opponents who may confound you at times, to get up from falls that may overcome you at times.

But always, just when you imagine you cannot go one more step, if you look just a bit further, you will see something unexpected. In the midst of the ordinary, the veil will give way. And you will see, as surely as I saw it in the abuela’s eyes meeting mine and in her hand over her heart—you will see the luminous presence of the Holy One. 

And in that moment, you will find strength—strength for the valley below you, strength for the challenges ahead of you, strength for the grief you carry from the past. 

Always, you are surrounded by the light.

You must only lift your eyes to see it just beyond the dusty road.

Thank you, St. John’s, for carrying on the work of the saints who have gone before you in this holy place. May you always see the dazzling light that surrounds you here. And may you always be the light that you behold.

Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany - February 5, 2023
As a child, I loved gardening with my mother. From the time I was very young, I took delight in the whole process. Mama taught me how to push a seed into the soil, to water and watch it grow. 

I caught on from an early age to the idea that you could take the seed of a fruit or a cutting of a plant and put it in the soil, and it would take root. There were times when I was a bit over zealous with this. I would plant peach cores, apple seeds, small toys, dog bones, blooms from flowers—always hoping for great things. I’d watch, but nothing would come up. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was ever the optimist. You might say I showed promise as a church planter from an early age. My problem was not being a gardening minimalist. I was trying to be helpful, but my methods did run the risk of choking the life out of the plants I surrounded with all my additions to the primary garden. 

Eventually, we got a cutting—a very special cutting—of the fig tree from my grandmother’s yard. This one, my mother  did not leave to chance—once it was in the ground, she impressed upon me the importance of not planting all manner of things around it. It needs room to grow, she told me. Room to take root. Don’t crowd it. Tend it. Those were her messages.

That cutting did, in fact, take root and became the source of much joy to me for all my growing up years. It was a small sapling at first—but by the time I was old enough to pick and prepare the fruit with my mother, it was a strong young fig tree. 

My grandmother gave us the cutting when she was moving out of her home to live with her daughter, my aunt. In retrospect, I realize it was a hard time for her, a time of grief and loss. The tree, too, was stressed in a yard that had seen neglect as her health began to fail. Still, it had life in it. She knew that and got the cutting to us so her beloved tree could see a new season.

In one of my favorite images from the musical, “The Secret Garden,” which I shared with you all at our first Convention together, the young gardener Dickon sings to Mary about the garden the grownups had left to seed. When Mary saw it, she thought surely it was dead. But Dickon taught her to look deeper. “When a thing is wick, it has a life about it,” Dickon sings. “Now, maybe not a life like you and me. But somewhere there's a single streak of green inside it. Come, and let me show you what I mean.”

That is the sense we had about that fig tree. If not dead, it surely looked depressed. We were not sure it’s future. But then, with loose soil and a lot of care, it blossomed again.

Gardens where death and life run side by side are central in our Judeo-Christian tradition. In fact, our journey with the struggle to survive death begins in a garden we call Eden. The tree of life and the tree of the cross have become two facets of one truth for us. Death, suffering, and the seed of new life are inextricably intertwined in our Christian story. 

Gardening is a central image of God’s work to transform the suffering of this world into the garden of Eden once more.

The idea of the garden as a place of healing and new life runs through Hebrew poetry and prophecy.  This morning’s text from Isaiah is set about a hundred years after the Jews’ return from exile. They had returned home from exile to a desolate land. Not unlike the desolation we’ve seen recently in Ukraine, in the holy land, around our world, and even right here in our diocese.

But the garden of Israel was not dead. It was, as the character Dickon says to Mary in the beloved story of the Secret Garden—wick.  That is to say, it had a life buried deep inside it that would come back into full bloom with proper care.  And so the passage we just heard ends with this beautiful piece of poetry:
 
           “…You shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail. Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.”  
 
This renewal will occur, the prophet says, if the people loose the bonds of injustice, if they let the oppressed go free, if they share their bread with the hungry, welcome the poor, and honor their own kin.

God says the way they will be able to do all these things is through their own fasting. Fasting is something the people did not just do as an act of self deprivation or exertion of will power—rather, it was something the people did to give outward sign to their grief. The Israelites fasted when they mourned. The fasted when they experienced loss. 

The fast God requires makes us hunger with those whose bellies ache from starvation, makes us freezing cold and despondent with those who have no place to lay their heads, makes us burn with anger with those under the rod of oppression. 

So, then, the question becomes, what do we do with all of this visceral connection to suffering? Self righteousness has a short shelf life. And, simply naming the problems is easy–we all can do that on a bad day.

Isaiah has a pretty clear answer. We stop pointing fingers; we refrain from speaking evil. And we act. Listen to the verbs he uses…loose, undo, free, share, break, bring, cover, offer, satisfy, repair, restore. 

Our distress becomes the seed of our ability to let our light shine in this world, as Jesus calls us to do—or, as the prophet writes—our ability to do justice, to be the watered garden for those in need. 

I do not believe it an overstatement to say that the grief we bear, when we allow it room, when we pull off the layers, becomes the strength by which we loose the bonds of others and free them, like the wick plant becomes a source of green, growing life. Our own pain is the seed that grows to be the bread we break and share with others. By these actions, we repair and restore the world around us. 

I’m not glorifying suffering. I don’t wish it on any of us. But it is simply a fact that through our wounds, we can help to heal others.

You, dear people of Okatie, have sustained losses in this community. I’ve seen how you tend to one another, letting the roots deepen. I’ve seen that and heard it since the first time I came to visit you. Your love for each other is tight knit; it is strong; it is enduring. And, it is your gift to this world.

The love you have built here is the gift you have to offer beyond these walls, to the people in this community. It is the fruit that can be shared.

This week is the year anniversary of the loss of our beloved nephew Max. A number of you reached out to me during that most painful time. Max was very dear to me and close to us. It is still hard to believe he is not here with us. It is a pain I carry every day. I know some of you carry such pain each day as well.

This terrible loss has left me with a pain I wish I did not have. And yet, I have also come to understand during this year, as more people than I can count have asked to speak to me about their own similar losses, that is a pain from which I can help others—a pain that lets me tend the needs and wounds of those around me. It is the wick planting that bears fruit in my life.

When we tend the parts of our lives that seem almost gone as a worshipping community—when we bring to the altar those places where we struggle just to make it through another day, then, through our life together, those places in us become the green, growing shoot from which the fruit of the Spirit can grow.

​Back when we planted the fig tree, Mama got an idea. There was a friend of the family named Mrs. Cheney who was a renowned cook in our home town. She had published cookbooks and was something of a local celebrity—and a fine Episcopalian, I might add. So, Mama asked her if I could go to her kitchen and learn to make fig preserves. She agreed to teach me. I still remember it like it was yesterday—boiling the bottles, stewing the figs with the lemon and sugar. Thereafter, each season, Mama and I would make preserves to share. From that first little cutting from my grandmother’s distressed tree, we shared joy with many households over the years. 

Thank you, Okatie, for letting your roots with each other go deep—deep in grief, in mourning, in hope, in healing. The love you know here in this small but mighty beloved community might just be the fruit that someone beyond these walls is hungering to taste. 

For you are wick; you have a life about you. You are the holy shoot in the watered garden. May the deep roots you have planted here nourish fruit you bring to your neighbors beyond these walls—in ways simple and profound, for years to come.