reflections

Why Do We Call God "Lord"?

Wed, 29 Jul 2026 12:58:40 GMT

Why do we call God "Lord"?

I got asked this question this week: why does the Bible call God "Lord" so often? One of our newer members asked me this. She'd been sitting with some discomfort around the word, and wanted to understand where it came from before deciding what to do with that discomfort. It seemed worth answering here for anyone else turning the same question over.

The short version: "Lord" is mostly not a description of God's character, the way "Shepherd" or "Rock" is. It's a stand-in for God's actual name.

Here's the background. God's proper name in the Hebrew Bible is four letters — YHWH, sometimes called the tetragrammaton. By at least the Hellenistic period, observant Jews had stopped pronouncing it aloud, out of reverence, substituting "Adonai" — Hebrew for "Lord" — whenever they read the name in the text. That's the origin point. "Lord" enters the tradition as a spoken substitute for a name too sacred to say.

This carried over into Greek. The Hebrew scriptures were translated into Greek in the third and second centuries BCE, in the version scholars call the Septuagint, for Jewish communities who now spoke Greek rather than Hebrew. Where the Hebrew text had the divine name, the Septuagint's translators used the Greek word for "lord" — kyrios. The New Testament, by contrast, wasn't translated into Greek; it was written in Greek from the start. But its authors quote the Old Testament constantly, and when they do, they inherit the Septuagint's habit of rendering the divine name as kyrios. Of roughly 695 uses of kyrios in the New Testament, about 22 percent are direct quotations of, or allusions to, God's own name. That's a significant chunk of the word's use in scripture — not a title so much as an echo of the Name itself.

This matters for how the New Testament talks about Jesus, too. When the Gospels and Paul call Jesus "Lord," they aren't just being respectful. They're applying to Jesus the very word Greek-speaking Jews used in place of God's own name. That's a theological claim, not a courtesy title: Jesus is being identified with the God of Israel.

So that's the "why" of it historically. The follow-up question is the more pressing one for us today: if "Lord" carries centuries of hierarchical, master-and-servant, monarchical baggage, why do we still use it — and are we allowed to use something else?

We are. In 1985, General Convention directed the church to prepare inclusive-language liturgical texts, and by 1997 those resources were gathered into a book called Enriching Our Worship. It draws on ancient biblical and patristic images and offers language for God that doesn't rely only on familiar masculine terms — Mother alongside Father, Holy One, Sustainer. Congregations can use these texts with the bishop's permission, and many Episcopal parishes do, in whole or in part.

Even in those texts, though, "Lord" tends to survive more than "Father" or "King" does. That's not an oversight — it's because "Lord" is doing two different jobs, and only one of them is really about gender or hierarchy.

In the Psalms and canticles translated from Hebrew, "Lord" is often functioning as that placeholder for the divine name. Replace it with a different word entirely, and you haven't just softened a metaphor — you've lost the connection to the Name the text is pointing at.

When the word is applied to Christ, it's carrying that same weight: the identification of Jesus with the God of Israel. Remove it there, and the theological claim underneath gets harder to see.

So here's where I've landed, and what I'd say back to her: it's right to question "Lord." Every generation should look hard at inherited language and ask what it's carrying. Sometimes the honest answer is that "Lord" is patriarchal language propping itself up as piety, and Mother or Holy One says something truer. But sometimes "Lord" isn't functioning as a gendered title at all — it's standing in for a name we don't say, or making a claim about who Jesus is. Worth knowing which one you're looking at before deciding what to do with the word.

Hard Questions: What does the church actually believe about LGBTQ+ people?

Mon, 27 Jul 2026 18:13:14 GMT

What does the church actualoy believe about LGBTQ+ people

If you've been to other churches, you already know this question carries weight. You've probably heard a version of the answer that came with caveats, or with conditions, or with a kind of warmth that stopped just short of full welcome. You may have heard scripture used in a way that landed like a verdict.

So let's be direct about where The Episcopal Church stands.

The Episcopal Church believes that LGBTQ+ people are made in the image of God, are full members of the Body of Christ, and are entitled to every sacrament, office, and ministry the church offers. That is not a recent concession. It is the church's position, arrived at through decades of prayer, study, and debate, and now encoded in its canons.

In 1976, General Convention affirmed that LGBTQ+ people have a full and equal claim to the love, acceptance, and pastoral care of the church. Over the following decades, the church moved incrementally and then decisively. It added sexual orientation to its nondiscrimination canons for ordination in 1994. It consecrated the first openly gay bishop in the Anglican Communion — the Rt. Rev. V. Gene Robinson of New Hampshire — in 2003. It approved same-sex marriage rites in 2015. It expanded those rites to every diocese in 2018, including protections for clergy with conscientious objections.

The church's official teaching now includes blessing same-sex marriages, ordaining LGBTQ+ clergy at every level, and welcoming LGBTQ+ people to every leadership role in parish and diocesan life. There is no asterisk.

So where does the Bible fit in all of this?

The tradition didn't arrive at its current position by ignoring scripture. It arrived there by reading it more carefully.

There are six passages most often cited in debates about homosexuality — sometimes called the "clobber passages." Genesis 19 (Sodom), Leviticus 18 and 20, Romans 1, and 1 Corinthians 6 and 1 Timothy 1. The Episcopal Church's theological tradition, along with an increasingly broad range of biblical scholars, has examined what those texts actually address — the specific cultural contexts, the Greek and Hebrew words involved, the behaviors being condemned — and concluded that none of them speaks to committed, covenantal same-sex relationships.

The Sodom narrative is about violent inhospitality, not homosexuality — a reading with ancient Jewish support (Ezekiel 16:49 identifies Sodom's sin as arrogance and neglect of the poor). The Levitical prohibitions exist within a holiness code governing a specific ancient community, most of which the church has not applied to Christians since the Jerusalem Council in Acts 15. The Pauline texts use Greek words — arsenokoitai and malakoi — that have no clean English translation and are understood by many scholars to refer to exploitative practices, not same-sex love between equals.

None of that settles every question. Serious scholars disagree. But the claim that the Bible's position on same-sex relationships is obvious and self-evident is not supported by careful reading of the texts in their contexts.

What that careful reading also turns up — and what rarely gets mentioned in these debates — is that the Bible contains what appear to be same-sex relationships treated with something other than condemnation.

The most textually grounded case involves the Roman centurion of Matthew 8 and Luke 7. A soldier approaches Jesus asking him to heal a servant who is dying. The Greek word Matthew uses for this servant — the one the centurion describes as desperately ill, the one he pleads for — is pais. In Greek, pais can mean "slave," "child," or, as classics scholars have long documented, the younger partner in a same-sex relationship in the Greco-Roman world. The centurion uses doulos — the ordinary word for slave — when speaking generally, but pais specifically for this one. Luke's version, which may preserve an older source, describes the pais as entimos to the centurion: precious, held in honor, dear.

Theodore Jennings and Tat-Siong Benny Liew made this case in the Journal of Biblical Literature in 2004 — the flagship peer-reviewed journal of biblical scholarship — arguing that Matthew's Greek, read in its historical context, points toward a relationship that his first-century audience would have recognized. The response published two years later in the same journal engaged the argument on textual grounds. Neither side claimed certainty.

Here is where honesty requires two things at once. First: whatever the nature of the relationship, it almost certainly did not involve consent in any modern sense. A slave's pais had no vocabulary for refusal. Ancient pederastic relationships operated inside power structures that would be recognized today as abuse, not love. Queer scholars who read this passage responsibly say so. The relationship, if that is what it was, was not a model. Second: Jesus heals the pais and praises the centurion's faith as greater than any he has found in Israel. He does not ask about the relationship. He does not withhold the healing. He does not say anything at all about what the centurion is to this person, or what this person is to the centurion. He simply acts. And what he acts toward is the one the centurion has come desperate and pleading to save.

That is not an endorsement of ancient power structures. It may be something else: a Jesus who moves toward suffering wherever he finds it, without making the nature of the relationship the condition of the healing.

David and Jonathan in 1 Samuel is a different kind of case — older, more widely discussed, less resolvable. Their relationship involves Jonathan stripping his own armor and robe and giving them to David at first meeting. It involves language of souls knit together. It generates a lament, after Jonathan's death, in which David says his love was more wonderful than the love of women. Scholars have read this in multiple ways. Some see covenantal friendship with no erotic dimension. Others — including the historian John Boswell in his landmark Christianity, Social Tolerance and Homosexuality (University of Chicago Press, 1980) — find the language too charged to read as purely platonic, particularly in an ancient Near Eastern context where such relationships between warrior-companions had recognized social forms. The text does not resolve it. That unresolvability is itself interesting — because what is clearly present is a love between two men that the Bible narrates without shame, without condemnation, and with evident tenderness.

None of this proves a position. But it does complicate the confident claim that the Bible speaks with one voice on same-sex relationships — and that the voice is only ever prohibitive.

What the tradition has consistently held is that scripture must be interpreted through the lens of the incarnation and the cross. The character of God revealed in Jesus is the interpretive key. And what that lens consistently reveals is a God who moves toward the excluded, who crosses the lines others draw, who insists that dignity belongs to everyone.

What queer theology actually argues — and why it matters

For most of church history, LGBTQ+ people have been asked, at best, to be quietly tolerated by theology. What emerged in the latter half of the twentieth century — first from the margins, then increasingly from within mainline academic theology — was something different: the claim that the experience of queer people doesn't just fit inside Christian theology. It illuminates it.

This field is called queer theology, and it deserves more than a dismissive mention.

Carter Heyward, one of the eleven women ordained "irregularly" to the Episcopal priesthood in 1974 and later among the first religious leaders in North America to come out as lesbian, spent her career at Episcopal Divinity School developing a theology built on what she called mutual relation. For Heyward, God is not a distant sovereign issuing decrees from above but the ground of genuine relationship — the power that moves in and through human love when that love is honest, mutual, and just. She called this activity "godding." Her argument is not that queer experience is an exception the church must accommodate. It is that queer experience — with its long practice of loving across social prohibition, its refusal to let fear dictate who deserves love — makes visible something about God that straight theology has sometimes obscured.

Patrick Cheng, an Episcopal priest and theologian who taught at Episcopal Divinity School, built on this tradition in his Radical Love: An Introduction to Queer Theology (Seabury Books, 2011). Cheng's central argument is arrestingly simple: Christian theology is, at its core, a queer enterprise. Because what Christianity proclaims is a love so extreme it dissolves every boundary — between divine and human, between life and death, between the holy and the profane. Jesus crosses every line the religious authorities of his day drew. He touches lepers, eats with tax collectors, speaks publicly with women, welcomes the socially unclean. The scandal of his ministry is not incidental to who he is. It is the point. Cheng argues that this boundary-crossing, boundary-dissolving love is exactly what the LGBTQ+ experience has always known — and that queer theology is therefore not a departure from Christian tradition but a recovery of something always already at its heart.

The late Argentine theologian Marcella Althaus-Reid pushed further, and more unsettlingly, from the underside. Writing from the perspective of Latin American liberation theology and her own bisexual identity, Althaus-Reid argued in Indecent Theology (Routledge, 2000) and The Queer God (Routledge, 2003) that theology done from positions of social comfort — from the center of heterosexual, colonial, economic power — inevitably produces a domesticated God. The God of "decent" theology, she insisted, is too small. Too tidy. Too safe. The God she was looking for — the God she found in the slums of Buenos Aires, in gay bars, in the margins of respectable society — was something wilder. She asked: What happens to theology when we take seriously the spiritual lives of people who have always been told they don't belong? What if their exclusion has been hiding something about God?

Not everyone will follow Althaus-Reid all the way. Her work is deliberately provocative, and she knew it. But the underlying theological question is serious: When the church excludes people, who gets excluded from the church's understanding of God?

The Baptismal Covenant and human dignity

The Episcopal Church's Baptismal Covenant, which all Episcopalians renew regularly, commits us to "respect the dignity of every human being." That is not a modern imposition on an ancient text. It is the logic of the gospel read straight. And queer theology — at its best — is an extended argument for what it actually costs the church to keep that promise. Not just politically. Theologically.

The church's journey on LGBTQ+ inclusion has not just been a matter of becoming more culturally tolerant. It has been a theological reckoning — a slow recognition that the exclusion of LGBTQ+ people was not only unjust but was distorting the church's understanding of God, of love, of the body, of grace.

A word of honesty about where the church actually is in practice

The Episcopal Church's canons are clear. Individual parishes and dioceses are something else. The church's own Task Force on LGBTQ+ Inclusion, established in 2022, is conducting an audit of how the church has lived into its stated commitments — which implies, honestly, that the commitments and the reality don't always match.

At Sts. MM&M, we have tried to close that gap. Our welcome is not conditional. It is not extended pending further study. It is not qualified by which parts of someone's life we're comfortable blessing. We celebrate same-sex marriages. We support LGBTQ+ leadership. We're not working toward inclusion — we're trying to practice it.

We don't say that to earn points. We say it because people who've been hurt deserve to know exactly where we stand before they walk through the door.

What about people who read the Bible differently and have genuine convictions?

They exist. They are not all acting in bad faith. The Anglican Communion — the global family of churches to which we belong — is deeply divided on this question, with many Global South provinces holding traditional positions. The departure of conservative congregations from The Episcopal Church over the past two decades is real, and the pain on multiple sides of that rupture is real.

We can name that without resolving it. What we will not do is pretend the question is still open at the level of our congregation's practice, or ask people to wait while we discern something we have already discerned.

Here is the question this raises: Has someone used scripture to tell you — or someone you love — that there is a condition on God's welcome? If so, we want you to know that this church reads that same scripture and reaches a different conclusion. You don't have to earn your way in here. You were made in the image of God, and that is enough. If you're still holding wounds from what another church decided about you or your family, you're not alone in this room. And the door is open.

¹ The Joseph narrative offers a related though more speculative case. Theodore Jennings argues in Jacob's Wound (Continuum, 2005) that the garment Jacob gives Joseph — identified by the same Hebrew phrase used for princess Tamar's royal dress in 2 Samuel 13 — suggests a gender-transgressive reading of Joseph's identity in the ancient text. The same caveat about power and consent applies: ancient gender arrangements were not built on modern categories of identity or freedom. But the questions Jennings raises about how the text codes Joseph's belovedness are worth sitting with. See his chapter "Joseph as Sissy Boy" in that volume.

Sources and further reading: Genesis 19; Leviticus 18:22, 20:13; Romans 1:26-27; 1 Corinthians 6:9; 1 Timothy 1:10 (NRSV). Ezekiel 16:49. Acts 15:1-29. Matthew 8:5-13; Luke 7:1-10; 1 Samuel 18-20; 2 Samuel 1:26 (NRSV). The Book of Common Prayer (1979), Baptismal Covenant, pp. 304-305. General Convention Resolutions: 1976-A069; 1994 nondiscrimination canons; 2015-A054, A036; 2018-B012. Theodore W. Jennings Jr. and Tat-Siong Benny Liew, "Mistaken Identities but Model Faith," Journal of Biblical Literature 123/3 (Fall 2004): 467-494. Theodore W. Jennings Jr., Jacob's Wound: Homoerotic Narrative in the Literature of Ancient Israel (Continuum, 2005). John Boswell, Christianity, Social Tolerance and Homosexuality (University of Chicago Press, 1980). Patrick S. Cheng, Radical Love: An Introduction to Queer Theology (Seabury Books, 2011). Carter Heyward, Touching Our Strength: The Erotic as Power and the Love of God (Harper & Row, 1989); Saving Jesus from Those Who Are Right (Fortress Press, 1999). Marcella Althaus-Reid, Indecent Theology (Routledge, 2000); The Queer God (Routledge, 2003). Matthew Vines, God and the Gay Christian (Convergent Books, 2014). William Loader, The New Testament on Sexuality (Eerdmans, 2012).

The Exchange Rate That Was Never Real

Mon, 27 Jul 2026 15:03:16 GMT

Reflection Proper 13a 2026

There's a kitchen table somewhere back in most of our childhoods. A piece of paper on it — a report card, maybe, or something you carried home like it was made of glass. You watched a face read it, and that face did math. This much pride. This much disappointment.

Nobody sat you down and explained the exchange rate. You just learned it, the way you learn which stairs creak. And once you know a rate exists, you start checking it everywhere — in a review email, in a phone call home, in the half-second look on someone's face before they say your name.

Then Isaiah shows up shouting across a marketplace, and he's not selling anything:

Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters. Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.

Say that slowly and feel it refuse to make sense. Buy — without money. That's not a discount on the old system. That's a different economy.

Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?

Not your money. Your performance. Your good behavior. The version of yourself you polish up before walking back into the room where the rate gets set.

The price was always fake.

What's the piece of paper you're still holding up for somebody to grade?

Lean more this coming Sunday as we explore God's economics in the sermon...

Hard Questions: What do we do with religious pluralism?

Mon, 20 Jul 2026 13:31:46 GMT

What do we do with religious pluralism?

On any given street in Coral Springs, you'll find Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, and people who practice something that doesn't have a name. Your kids go to school with them. You work alongside them. Some of them are at your dinner table.

Religious pluralism isn't an abstract theological problem. And the question it raises for Christians is a real one: Can you take your own faith seriously — actually seriously, not just as a cultural habit — while genuinely respecting the faith of someone who believes something different? Or does integrity require you to choose between the two?

There's a distinction worth holding here, and Diana Eck, Harvard professor of comparative religion, has spent her career insisting on it. Plurality is simply the fact of religious diversity — the reality that there are many religions making different, often incompatible truth claims. This has always been true. It was true in first-century Jerusalem. It is simply more visible now.

Pluralism is a response to that diversity, and it is not the same thing as relativism. It does not mean saying all religions are equally true, or that your own tradition is merely one option among many interchangeable ones. It means something harder: genuine, committed engagement with people of different faiths in a posture of curiosity and respect, without abandoning your own convictions.

Eck describes herself as a Christian pluralist. She is genuinely committed to her own tradition and genuinely open to learning about God from others. Her encounters with Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam — documented in Encountering God: A Spiritual Journey from Bozeman to Banaras (Beacon Press, 1993) — did not erode her Christianity. They expanded it. They pressed her toward a larger understanding of God than she had arrived with. That is not weakness. It is what happens when faith is secure enough to be curious.

The Anglican Communion addressed this directly in Generous Love, a document produced by the Anglican Network for Interfaith Concerns in 2008. The governing claim is that Christians engage other faiths not from superiority or anxiety but from the security of their own identity — out of the same generous love they have received. It argues that genuine dialogue is the most faithful response to religious difference, not because it resolves all theological questions, but because it takes both the gospel and the neighbor seriously at the same time.

The Episcopal Church's own 2021 framework on interreligious relations grounds this in the doctrine of creation: all human beings are made in the image of God, which means diversity is not a problem to solve but a condition of God's world to be honored. It names the Holy Spirit as the one who, like the wind in John 3:8, blows where it chooses — the tradition's acknowledgment that God does not stay inside the church's authorized territories. Salvation comes through Christ. The reach of that salvation is not ours to map.

What does this actually look like on the ground?

It looks like learning — going to the mosque, the synagogue, the temple, not to evaluate or to convert, but to encounter. Stendahl's three rules, mentioned in the previous article in this series, apply here with full force: ask adherents, not their enemies; don't compare your best to their worst; leave room for holy envy.

It looks like honesty about difference. Genuine pluralism is not the pretense that all religions teach the same thing. They don't. Christians, Jews, and Muslims agree that there is one God and disagree about almost everything else that matters — including who Jesus was, what the Torah requires, and what the Prophet received. Hindus, Buddhists, and Christians have profoundly different accounts of the self, of suffering, of liberation. Flattening those differences in the name of harmony is not respect. It is condescension.

It looks like shared work. The tradition of the common good — working alongside people of other faiths toward justice, relief of suffering, care for the vulnerable — does not require theological agreement to proceed. At Sts. MM&M, we work alongside neighbors of many faiths and none in programs that serve this community. The work doesn't require us to pretend we believe the same things. It requires us to recognize the same neighbor.

And it looks like holding your own faith without using it as a weapon. You can be genuinely committed to Jesus Christ as the fullest revelation of God you have received — hold that with real confidence — without concluding that everyone who received something different is your adversary or your project.

The New Testament models this more often than the church has admitted.

Paul at the Areopagus (Acts 17) doesn't begin by condemning the Athenians' religion. He walks among their altars and finds in them something to honor — a genuine reaching after the divine. He names it. He builds from it. He then proclaims Jesus as the one who answers the question their unnamed altar was already asking. Paul clearly believes the resurrection changes everything. But his posture toward the Athenians' religious instincts is recognition, not contempt. He meets them where they are actually standing.

Jesus told his disciples he was the way, and he told them to love their neighbors. He did not exempt the ones who prayed differently. He told the story of the Good Samaritan in response to a question about who counts as a neighbor — and the hero of the story is the one whose theology was wrong by the questioner's standards and whose compassion was right by everyone's.

So what do we do with religious pluralism?

We live in it honestly — neither pretending our faith makes no truth claims, nor using our truth claims as permission to stop learning from the people around us. We take our tradition seriously enough to bring it into genuine contact with other traditions. We trust that a God large enough to create the whole human family in the divine image is not threatened by the prayers of people who address that image by a different name.

And we do the work that most needs doing right now — which is not resolving every theological disagreement between the world's religions, but learning to be neighbors. In a world where religious difference gets used to justify contempt and violence, the faithful response is not to have the right answer. It is to be someone your neighbors can trust.

Where are you with this today? Maybe you grew up in a tradition that taught you to be suspicious of other faiths — or maybe you've swung so far the other way that your own faith feels like just one preference among many. Both of those places miss something. The invitation is harder than either: hold what you believe, hold it seriously, and stay genuinely curious about what God might be doing in the lives of people who believe something different. Your neighbor's faith is not your enemy. It might be one of the places God is still trying to get your attention.

Sources and further reading: Acts 17:22-31; John 3:8; Luke 10:25-37 (NRSV). Diana L. Eck, Encountering God: A Spiritual Journey from Bozeman to Banaras (Beacon Press, 1993; rev. ed. 2003); A New Religious America: How a "Christian Country" Became the World's Most Religiously Diverse Nation (HarperSanFrancisco, 2001). Anglican Consultative Council, Generous Love: The Truth of the Gospel and the Call to Dialogue (Anglican Network for Interfaith Concerns, 2008). The Episcopal Church, Interreligious Relations: Theology and Guidelines (2021), available at episcopalarchives.org. Barbara Brown Taylor, Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others (HarperOne, 2019). Krister Stendahl, rules for interfaith encounter, cited in Taylor (2019).

The Kingdom of Heaven is Like a Weed

Mon, 20 Jul 2026 13:08:12 GMT

Reflection for Proper 12a 2026

This Sunday's gospel gives us two one-line parables that get read so fast in church we usually miss what's actually in them: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed... The kingdom of heaven is like yeast" (Matthew 13:31-33).

Here's what usually gets preached: small things grow into big things. A tiny seed becomes a tree. A little yeast leavens the whole loaf. Nice. Tidy. Inspirational calendar material.

The part that usually gets left out: a mustard plant, in Jesus's world, wasn't a stately, welcome thing to find in your field. It was a weed. The kind that spreads where it isn't invited and refuses to stay in the row you planted it in. And yeast wasn't a wholesome kitchen staple in most of the biblical imagination. It was shorthand for corruption, for the thing that works its way through and changes what it touches, quietly, from the inside.

So when Jesus reaches for a comparison to describe the kingdom of God, he doesn't reach for a cedar or a harvest or anything that would have sounded impressive to his listeners. He reaches for the weed. The contaminant. The thing nobody wanted in their field or their flour.

I think that's on purpose, and it matters for anyone who has ever felt like the messy, complicated parts of their life or their story made them a poor candidate for church, like you'd need to get yourself cleaned up before you could belong somewhere like this.

These two verses suggest something different: that God's kingdom doesn't wait for you to have it together. It shows up in the very stuff we're taught to be ashamed of, and works from there.

There's more in this Sunday's readings that goes even further with this: a king who prays for exactly the right thing and still causes harm, a parable about sorting people out that isn't as simple as it first appears, and a promise in Romans 8 that nothing gets to have the last word over you. We'll get into all of it Sunday.

Hard Questions: Are non-Christians saved?

Tue, 14 Jul 2026 13:13:36 GMT

Are non-Christians saved?

The previous article asked about people who never had access to the gospel. This one is the harder question — the one that comes up at Thanksgiving dinner, at hospital bedsides, at funerals. It's about people who have encountered Christianity, at least in some form, and who live or lived outside it. The neighbor who was a better person than most Christians you know. The parent who practiced another faith with genuine devotion. The friend who looked at the church and walked away for reasons that made complete sense. The person who simply never found their way to belief.

What does the tradition say about them?

First, a distinction worth making clearly, because the confusion between different positions causes a lot of unnecessary heat.

There is a difference between universalism — the belief that everyone will ultimately be saved, regardless of how they lived or what they believed — and inclusivism — the belief that salvation comes through Jesus Christ but may reach people who don't know his name. There is also pluralism — the belief that multiple religions are equally valid paths to God. And there is exclusivism — the belief that only those who explicitly confess faith in Jesus are saved.

The Episcopal Church is not pluralist. It affirms the creeds, which identify Jesus as the one through whom all things were made and through whom salvation comes. It is not straightforwardly exclusivist either — the tradition has consistently refused to draw hard lines around who is and isn't within the reach of God's grace. The space it occupies is somewhere between inclusivist and what might be called hopeful universalism, and it has never required its members to resolve that tension definitively.

The early church was more generous on this question than many people realize.

The fourth-century theologian Basil of Caesarea observed that in his time most Christians did not believe in eternal punishment for all who died outside the faith. The tradition of apokatastasis — universal restoration — runs from Origen through Gregory of Nyssa into later Christian thought, and while it has never become official doctrine, it has never entirely disappeared either. Augustine himself noted that in his day "very many" refused to believe in eternal punishment and softened the harder scriptural statements by appealing to God's mercy.

In recent decades, the most serious philosophical and theological case for universal salvation has come from David Bentley Hart, an Eastern Orthodox theologian, in That All Shall Be Saved (Yale University Press, 2019). Hart argues — without hedging — that if Christianity is a coherent system of belief, then universal salvation is the only possible conclusion. His central argument runs like this: God is the ground of all being, the source of all goodness, the one in whom everything that exists participates. A creature permanently separated from that source would cease to exist entirely, which means that hell as eternal conscious torment is philosophically incoherent. God cannot fail to save what God has made without contradicting God's own nature.

Hart's book caused significant controversy and has serious critics. Not everyone finds his philosophical argument convincing, and many traditional theologians argue he has moved beyond what Scripture and the weight of tradition can support. But the conversation he opened — and the early church sources he recovers — make it impossible to treat universalism as obviously beyond the pale of serious Christian thought.

Karl Barth, widely regarded as the most important Protestant theologian of the twentieth century, held what is often called hopeful universalism — not the confident assertion that all will be saved, but the theological conviction that the scope of God's reconciling work in Christ is so vast that Christians are permitted, even required, to hope for the salvation of all. He grounded this in Romans 5:18: just as one man's trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man's act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all. Barth did not collapse this into a guarantee. He left the outcome in God's hands. But he insisted that the hands in question were the hands of a God whose love has no outer limit.

The biblical witness itself is not as clean as either side usually claims.

On one hand, there are texts that seem to describe a final division — sheep and goats, wheat and tares, a narrow gate and few who find it. These are real, and they should not be explained away.

On the other hand, there are texts that seem to describe something much larger. Romans 5:18 — the verse Barth built so much on. Colossians 1:20, which speaks of God reconciling all things to himself through Christ. 1 Timothy 2:4, which says plainly that God desires all people to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth. Philippians 2:10-11, which says that at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow and every tongue confess. John 12:32, where Jesus says that when he is lifted up he will draw all people to himself.

Paul himself uses the word "all" in ways that strain against any attempt to cabin its meaning. The tradition has never achieved consensus on how to hold these two sets of texts together. What it has generally said is that the tension is real, the outcome is in God's hands, and our job is not to draw the lines but to bear witness to a love that exceeds our mapping of it.

Where does the Episcopal tradition actually land?

The BCP catechism, when asked what we expect at the Last Judgment, says that God will make right what is wrong and bring about the completion of God's purpose for the world. It does not specify who is in and who is out. The tradition has tended to trust that question to God rather than answer it definitively in advance.

The Episcopal Church does not teach that everyone is automatically saved regardless of how they live. It does not teach that explicit faith in Jesus is the only door through which God's grace operates. It affirms that Jesus Christ is the one through whom salvation comes, while remaining genuinely open about the reach of that salvation.

What it will not do is tell you with confidence that your neighbor, your parent, your friend — the one who never made it to church, the one who practiced another faith, the one who simply couldn't believe — is outside the reach of God's love. The tradition is wiser than that. And wiser, honestly, than the question deserves a clean answer.

Where are you with this today? Maybe there's someone specific you've been holding this question for — someone whose faith, or lack of it, doesn't fit neatly into any answer this article can give. You don't have to make peace with the uncertainty today. But you might try holding that person gently in God's presence, trusting that the love you feel for them is a small reflection of something larger. God knows them. God has always known them. And God's love reaches further than our fear that it doesn't.

Sources and further reading: Romans 5:18; Colossians 1:20; 1 Timothy 2:4; Philippians 2:10-11; John 12:32 (NRSV). David Bentley Hart, That All Shall Be Saved: Heaven, Hell, and Universal Salvation (Yale University Press, 2019). Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics IV/3 (T&T Clark, 1961). Gregory of Nyssa, On the Soul and the Resurrection (c. 380 AD). Origen, On First Principles (c. 220 AD). John Sanders, No Other Name: An Investigation into the Destiny of the Unevangelized (Eerdmans, 1992). The Book of Common Prayer (1979), Catechism, p. 862.

The Strength to be Kind

Tue, 14 Jul 2026 13:13:28 GMT

Reflection for Proper 11a, 2026

There's a verse in the Wisdom of Solomon this week that's easy to read past without noticing what it's actually claiming.

"Through such works," the writer says, "God has taught his people that the righteous must be kind, and has filled his children with good hope, because God grants repentance for sins."

Look at the order of that sentence. It doesn't say: be kind, and maybe God will notice and be kind back. It says God was kind first, and that kindness is what taught us kindness was even possible. We didn't invent mercy and hope God would approve. We learned it by watching.

The passage builds its case from somewhere that sounds, at first, like an odd place to start an argument about mercy: God's power. "You are righteous, and you rule over all things righteously," it says, "for your strength is the source of your righteousness." The strength is what makes the mercy make sense.

That cuts against a fairly common instinct — the idea that leniency is what you settle for when you don't have the strength to do otherwise. We tend to treat mercy as a kind of concession. As if the person who lets something go must not have had much of a case to make in the first place. As if patience is really just powerlessness wearing a nicer coat.

Wisdom argues the opposite. It takes real strength to leave something unresolved. Anyone can lash out — that just takes an instinct and a moment of provocation. What takes strength is staying steady enough, secure enough in what you have, that you don't need to prove it by how hard you come down on someone. This isn't a God who is lenient because God is weak. This is a God whose leniency only makes sense because underneath it there's nothing insecure, nothing anxious, nothing that needs to win.

You've probably seen a human version of this. The most confident people you know are rarely the ones who need to have the last word. The most competent people you know are usually the ones willing to let you struggle a little before they step in, because they trust exactly how much room there is before things actually go wrong. It's the newer, less certain among us who hover, who can't leave anything alone. Real strength tends to look like room held open rather than a grip held tight.

If that's true of God, the passage says, it has to become true of us too. We learn kindness the way a child learns a language — by hearing it spoken around them long before they can form the sentence themselves. We learned kindness was possible because we were shown it first. If we were only ever shown power that had to prove itself by never letting anything go, that's the only kind of strength we'd know how to imitate.

So ask yourself this week: where are you currently mistaking a tight grip for strength?

That's not weakness, letting go. According to this reading, it might be the clearest evidence of strength there is.

Hard Questions:: What About Poeple Who Never Heard of Jesus?

Mon, 06 Jul 2026 13:12:02 GMT

What about people who never heard of Jesus?

This is the question people ask quietly, and usually about someone specific.

A grandmother who practiced another religion her whole life and died before anyone in her family became Christian. A child who died before they could understand anything. A man in the first century living in a village in West Africa, ten thousand miles from Jerusalem, who never once encountered the story of Jesus. A woman in ancient China who spent her life in genuine pursuit of goodness and truth and died without hearing a single word of the gospel.

What happens to them?

If you've ever loved someone outside the visible boundaries of Christian faith, this question has a face. And the church's answers have often been either cruel or evasive. This article is an attempt at something more honest.

The question has a formal name in theology: the problem of the unevangelized. It sits at a precise intersection of things Christians claim to believe — that God is good, that God loves all people, that Jesus is the unique savior of the world, and that billions of people across history have lived and died without ever encountering that savior. If all four of those things are true simultaneously, some serious explaining is required.

The tradition has offered three broad responses.

Hard exclusivism holds that explicit, conscious faith in Jesus is required for salvation, and that without it, people are justly condemned for their sins regardless of whether they ever heard the gospel. This position takes the particularity of Christ with the utmost seriousness. Its critics argue that it makes God's saving intent effectively hostage to the accidents of geography and history — whether you happened to be born in first-century Judea or seventh-century Arabia or twenty-first century America determines your eternal fate in a way that seems to have nothing to do with who you are.

Inclusivism holds that salvation comes only through the work of Jesus Christ — but that conscious knowledge of Jesus may not be required to receive it. God's saving grace, accomplished at the cross, may reach people who have genuinely responded to the truth and light available to them, even without knowing the name of Jesus. This is not the same as saying all paths lead to God, or that Jesus is unnecessary. It is saying that the reach of what Jesus accomplished may extend further than the reach of the church's preaching. This position has significant biblical support and represents what one survey of the theological tradition describes as the closest thing to a consensus among Christians today.

Postmortem evangelization — sometimes called the second-chance view — holds that those who never heard the gospel in this life will have an opportunity to encounter and respond to Christ after death. It has some ancient precedent in the tradition, including the mysterious passage in 1 Peter 3 about Christ preaching to "the spirits in prison," though exactly what that passage means has been debated for centuries. It is a minority position but not without serious defenders.

The biblical evidence is more complex than either side usually admits.

On one hand, Romans 10:14 asks pointedly: How are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? The implication seems to be that hearing is necessary. Paul consistently grounds salvation in proclamation — the gospel must be preached.

On the other hand, Romans 1 and 2 describe a God who has made himself known through creation to all people everywhere, and Romans 2 speaks of Gentiles — those without the written law — who nonetheless do what the law requires, whose consciences bearing witness to the truth. Paul doesn't say these people are lost. He says they will be judged by a God who shows no partiality.

John's prologue describes the Logos — the Word, who became flesh in Jesus — as the light that enlightens every person who comes into the world. Not every Christian. Every person. Justin Martyr, a second-century theologian and one of the earliest Christian apologists, developed what he called logos Christology: the idea that the Word of God has always been present and active throughout human history, planting seeds of truth in people and cultures across time, even those who knew nothing of the historical Jesus. He called those who lived by this logos — this reason, this truth, this light — "Christians before Christ."

C.S. Lewis engaged this question with more honesty than most, and he did it in fiction rather than theology, which is sometimes the braver move. In The Last Battle, the final volume of the Narnia chronicles, there is a character named Emeth — a Calormene soldier who has spent his whole life devoted to Tash, the god of his culture, who is in every way the opposite of Aslan. When Emeth finds himself in Aslan's country at the end of time, he expects condemnation. What he receives is something else entirely. Aslan tells him: Unless thy desire had been for me, thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek.

Lewis was not a universalist — he did not believe everyone would be saved regardless of how they lived or what they chose. But he was an inclusivist, and Emeth is his imaginative argument: that genuine, wholehearted pursuit of truth and goodness, even under a wrong name, may be pursuit of the God who is the source of all truth and goodness.

Where does the Episcopal tradition land?

The tradition does not have a definitive official position on the unevangelized. It has not closed the question. What it does affirm — in the creeds, in the BCP, in the theological heritage of Anglican Christianity — is that salvation comes through Jesus Christ, that God desires the salvation of all people, and that God is not bound by the limitations of human reach. The tradition has consistently resisted mapping God's grace too precisely, insisting that the boundaries of salvation are known to God and not to us.

What it has not done is adopt hard exclusivism as official teaching. The via media — the Anglican instinct to hold tension without forcing premature resolution — is on full display here. God is good. Jesus is unique. And the reach of what happened at Calvary is in the hands of a God who loves the grandmother, the child, the man in West Africa, and the woman in ancient China more than we do.

Where are you with this today? Maybe this question has never felt abstract to you. Maybe there's a name — or several names — attached to it. People you've loved who lived and died outside the boundaries of Christian faith, people you find it genuinely impossible to imagine a good God condemning. You don't have to resolve this today. What you can do is trust that the God who loves you also loves them — and has always known them in ways we can't see from here. Leave the accounting to God. It tends to go better that way.

Sources and further reading: Romans 1:18-20; Romans 2:6-16; Romans 10:14; John 1:1-9; 1 Peter 3:18-20 (NRSV). Justin Martyr, First Apology, Chapter 46 (c. 155 AD). C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle (Geoffrey Bles, 1956); Mere Christianity, Book IV, Chapter 10 (Geoffrey Bles, 1952). John Sanders, No Other Name: An Investigation into the Destiny of the Unevangelized (Eerdmans, 1992). Clark Pinnock, A Wideness in God's Mercy (Zondervan, 1992). The Book of Common Prayer (1979), Catechism, p. 862.

The Answer Key

Mon, 06 Jul 2026 12:35:29 GMT

Reflection for Proper 10a, 2026

There's a farmer in Matthew 13 who throws seed everywhere. On the path, where birds are waiting. On rock, where nothing has a chance. Into thorns, which will strangle whatever comes up. And onto good soil, where it multiplies past anything a farmer has a right to expect.

Most of us learned this story as a soil inventory. Which one are you? Path, rock, thorn, or good ground? Sunday school handed you the categories and asked you to sort yourself. Some preacher somewhere told you which one to aim for.

Farmers in first-century Galilee plowed a field before they sowed it. They didn't fling seed across a path and hope. So either this sower is genuinely bad at his job, or something else is going on — this isn't a field guide to agriculture, it's a story about a sower who doesn't triage the ground before he starts throwing. Scholars have argued both sides of that for a century, and honestly, the fact that they can't settle it tells you something. The ambiguity might be the point.

What happens next is less contested. Verses 18 through 23 — the tidy explanation, seed equals word, path equals hard heart, thorns equal worry and wealth — almost certainly isn't Jesus. The tradition-critical scholars, going back to Adolf Jülicher, then C.H. Dodd, then Joachim Jeremias in his landmark study of the parables, made the case that this kind of point-by-point allegorizing reflects the early church's habits of interpretation, not Jesus's own way of teaching. Jesus told parables that stayed open. The generation after him, trying to catechize new believers and keep the story straight, went back in and answered the questions Jesus left hanging.

I don't say that to undercut scripture. I say it because it changes what kind of story you're standing in. Without the answer key, the parable doesn't tell you which soil you are. It doesn't resolve. It just describes a sower who keeps throwing seed at ground that, by any sane accounting, is going to fail him three times out of four — and then, when it doesn't fail, it doesn't just succeed. It goes off the charts. A good yield in that region and that era ran somewhere around tenfold. This one comes back thirty, sixty, a hundred. That's not a farming report. That's an economy that doesn't run on scarcity logic, dropped into the middle of a story that otherwise looks like a lesson in loss.

I think we added the allegory because we needed the story to behave. An institution that's just starting to organize itself, trying to hold a movement together after the person who started it is gone, wants categories. It wants to know who's in and who's out, who's good soil and who isn't, so it can plan accordingly. It's also, I'd guess, exactly what Jesus was trying to get his listeners to stop doing — sorting themselves and each other into worthy ground and failed ground — right before somebody handed them a sorting chart anyway.

Maybe the point isn't to figure out which ground you are. Maybe that was never yours to answer. The soil doesn't get a vote on what kind of soil it is. It just receives what's thrown at it, and something happens or it doesn't, and either way the sower keeps walking the field, arm swinging, seed going out into rock and thorn like it might take this time too. That's a strange kind of freedom, if you let it be one. You don't have to spend your life auditing your own heart for hardness, or your neighbor's for shallowness. You just get to be ground, and let something be planted, and see.

I think that's harder than having the answer key, not easier. An answer key tells you where you stand. Its absence asks you to keep living without knowing — to keep receiving whatever gets thrown your way without a verdict attached, trusting that the sower's extravagance was never contingent on you passing inspection first.

Somewhere in this parish there's a person who's been carrying a private verdict on themselves for years — path, or rock, or thorn, take your pick. I can't undo that with a sermon or a blog post. What I can say is that the verdict was never in the text to begin with. Somebody added it later, out of the same anxiety that makes any of us reach for a chart when the truth is just too open to bear. You were handed an answer key you didn't need. You're allowed to put it down.

Sources: Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus, 2nd ed. (Prentice-Hall, 1972); the tradition-critical line running from Adolf Jülicher through C.H. Dodd to Jeremias is surveyed in Proclaiming the Parables: Preaching and Teaching the Kingdom of God (Westminster John Knox); the ongoing scholarly disagreement over whether the sower is inept or historically accurate is summarized in "The Parable of the Sower," Bible Odyssey (bibleodyssey.org); on ancient Galilean yield rates and pre-sowing plowing practice, see the agricultural background collected in Bonfil and Hadas, "Ancient Field-Crop Yields and Land-Carrying Capacity," Israel Antiquities Authority.

Hard Questions: Is Jesus the Only Way?

Sun, 28 Jun 2026 13:06:27 GMT

Is Jesus the Only Way?

John 14:6. I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

It is one of the most quoted verses in the New Testament and one of the most weaponized. It has been used to declare billions of people condemned. It has been wielded against Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and people of no faith. It has been placed on billboards, shouted through megaphones, and used to justify some of the church's worst behavior toward people it deemed outside the circle.

It is also a verse spoken at a dinner table, to eleven frightened friends, the night before Jesus died.

Context matters. Let's start there.

John 14 is part of what scholars call the Farewell Discourse — chapters 13 through 17 of John's Gospel, in which Jesus gathers his disciples on the night before his crucifixion and speaks to them at length. He knows he is leaving. They are frightened and confused. Thomas, in verse 5, speaks for all of them: Lord, we don't know where you're going. How can we know the way?

Jesus answers him. I am the way, the truth, and the life.

The verse is not a universal pronouncement about the eternal destiny of every human being who has ever lived. It is an answer to a specific question, from a specific person, in a room of people who have spent years following Jesus and are terrified of losing him. Jesus is telling Thomas — and through Thomas, the disciples — that he himself is the path through what is coming. He is not posting a doctrinal boundary around salvation. He is comforting his friends.

That doesn't mean the verse has no broader theological implications. It does. But reading it as primarily a statement of cosmic exclusion rather than intimate reassurance misreads its original context so badly that it becomes a different verse entirely.

Theologians have organized the Christian responses to this question into three broad categories, and knowing them is useful.

Exclusivism is the position that explicit, conscious faith in Jesus Christ is required for salvation. Only those who hear the gospel and accept it are saved. Everyone else is not. This has been the majority position across much of Christian history, particularly in certain Protestant traditions. Its advocates argue that it takes Jesus's own words seriously and provides the only coherent basis for Christian mission.

Inclusivism is the position that salvation comes through Jesus Christ alone — but that explicit knowledge of and faith in Jesus may not be required to receive it. God's saving grace, accomplished through Christ, may reach people who have never heard of Jesus but who have responded to the truth and light available to them. This position was significantly advanced in Catholic theology after Vatican II, particularly by theologian Karl Rahner, whose concept of "anonymous Christians" described people living in genuine openness to God without knowing the name of Jesus. It has significant support within the Episcopal and broader Anglican tradition.

Pluralism holds that multiple religions are equally valid paths to God or to ultimate reality, and that Christianity has no special claim to truth. This position is held by some theologians but is generally outside the boundaries of orthodox Christian faith — it requires abandoning the claim that Jesus is uniquely and definitively the revelation of God, which is foundational to both the creeds and the tradition.

Where does the Episcopal tradition land?

The Episcopal Church affirms the creeds — the Apostles' and Nicene — which identify Jesus as the one through whom all things were made and through whom salvation comes. The church does not affirm pluralism in the sense of treating all religions as equally true. But it has never required the kind of hard exclusivism that condemns everyone outside explicit Christian faith.

The tradition has substantial resources for a more inclusivist reading. Acts 17, where Paul encounters the altar to the unknown God in Athens and tells the Athenians that the God they worship without knowing is the God he proclaims — suggests that genuine but unnamed seeking after God is not dismissed by the tradition. The prologue to John's Gospel speaks of the Logos, the Word, as the light that enlightens every person — not every Christian. Every person.

Barbara Brown Taylor, Episcopal priest and theologian, spent twenty years teaching world religions to undergraduates in rural Georgia. In Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others (HarperOne, 2019), she describes what happened when she brought her students — mostly Christians — into mosques, synagogues, Hindu temples, and Buddhist monasteries. She borrowed a phrase from Swedish biblical scholar Krister Stendahl: holy envy — the experience of encountering something in another tradition that is genuinely beautiful and true and that you wish your own tradition possessed.

Taylor did not conclude from two decades of interfaith encounter that all religions are equally true or that Jesus is merely one option among many. She remained, in her own words, Christian to the core. But she found that the encounters deepened rather than threatened her faith, and that the God she met in those other spaces was recognizably the same God she had been following her whole life — larger, stranger, and less containable than any single tradition's account of him.

That posture — holding to the particular claims of the Christian faith while remaining genuinely open to what God may be doing beyond the visible boundaries of the church — is close to where the Episcopal tradition actually lives.

So: is Jesus the only way?

The tradition's honest answer is: Jesus is the way Christians know, the way the church has received, the way that is most fully and concretely revealed in a life, a death, and a resurrection. Whether God's saving work through Jesus reaches beyond those who know his name — whether the grace accomplished at Calvary extends further than the church's preaching has gone — is a question the tradition has not definitively closed.

What the tradition has closed is the question of whether Jesus matters. He does — uniquely, definitively, irreversibly. But how far the light from that event reaches, and who it illuminates without their knowing it — that remains, as the tradition's wisest voices have said, in the hands of a God who is not bound by our categories.

Thomas asked a frightened question in a dark room. Jesus answered him by pointing to himself. That answer has carried the church for two thousand years. It does not require us to conclude that everyone who never heard it is thereby lost.

Where are you with this today? Maybe this question has a face for you — someone you love who practices another faith, or none at all, someone the hard exclusivist answer would place beyond the reach of God's love. If that's where you are, this article can't fully reach you, because no article can. What I can say is this: the God revealed in Jesus Christ is not a God of small mercy and careful boundaries. The tradition at its most generous has always believed that love reaches further than our maps of it. Hold your faith. Hold it seriously. And leave a little room for a God who keeps exceeding it.

Sources and further reading: John 14:1-6; Acts 17:22-31; John 1:1-9 (NRSV). Barbara Brown Taylor, Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others (HarperOne, 2019). Karl Rahner, "Anonymous Christians," in Theological Investigations, Vol. 6 (Darton, Longman & Todd, 1969). Krister Stendahl, "From God's Perspective We Are All Minorities," Journal of Religious Pluralism (1993). Second Vatican Council, Nostra Aetate (1965). The Nicene Creed, Book of Common Prayer (1979), p. 358. The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral (1886/1888).

Nobody's Playing Along

Sun, 28 Jun 2026 12:59:51 GMT

Reflection fo Proper 9a, 2026

This Fourth of July weekend, we've been surrounded by a particular set of images.

Flags. Fireworks. The pageantry of national power. And there's nothing wrong with any of that, exactly. But images like these do something to us over time. They train the eye. They teach us, without our noticing, what victory is supposed to look like. What strength is supposed to feel like. What winning means.

Which is why the Sunday readings this week feel almost like a provocation.

In Matthew's gospel, Jesus describes a crowd in the marketplace — children calling out to each other, complaining that nobody will play along. It's a picture of his own generation. John the Baptist was too severe. Jesus is too permissive. Neither one fits what people expected. And so both of them get dismissed.

The crowd wasn't careless. They had studied. They had waited. They had built, from everything they'd been taught and promised, a clear picture of how God's messenger was supposed to arrive. And that picture was exactly what kept them from seeing what was standing right in front of them.

Zechariah had described this king centuries before. Triumphant and victorious — those are his words. And then the king arrives on a donkey, cutting off his own side's war horses, dismantling the battle bow. This is what triumph looks like in the economy of God. From the outside, it looks exactly like weakness.

Jesus thanks God — genuinely thanks God — that the wise and the intelligent can't see it. The ones who see it are the infants. The ones without the picture already fixed in their heads.

I keep thinking about who those people might be. The ones who aren't carrying the wrong image. The ones who have stopped waiting for the war horse, not because they gave up, but because they've been too busy surviving to hold onto a picture of how this was all supposed to go.

Zechariah calls them prisoners of hope. Held by something they can't prove yet, in the waterless pit, waiting for home.

This Sunday we'll sit with what it means that the king showed up for them. That he's been looking for them all along. Wherever you are this weekend — I hope you'll join us.

Hard Questions: Did the Miracles Really Happen

Mon, 22 Jun 2026 12:49:16 GMT

Did the Miracles Really Happen

Water into wine. Walking on water. Five thousand people fed with five loaves and two fish. A man dead four days walking out of a tomb. If these things happened the way the Gospels describe them, they are among the most significant events in the history of the world. If they didn't, something else is going on in these texts — and we need to figure out what.

Most churches treat this as a loyalty test. Believe the miracles or you're not really a Christian. But that framing shuts down a conversation that serious Christians, including serious biblical scholars, have been having for centuries. This article is an attempt to open it back up — not to give you a conclusion, but to give you the actual range of honest options.

Start with the philosophical question, because it comes first.

The objection to miracles isn't primarily historical — it's philosophical. David Hume, the eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher, argued in his essay On Miracles (1748) that our uniform experience of the laws of nature always outweighs any testimony to their violation. Dead people stay dead. Water stays water. The odds against any particular miracle report being true are, by this logic, always overwhelming.

C.S. Lewis, in Miracles (1947), took Hume's argument seriously and then took it apart. Lewis pointed out that Hume's argument assumes the very thing it's trying to prove — that the laws of nature are closed to intervention. But that's a philosophical position, not a scientific one. Science describes regularities; it doesn't have the tools to rule out the possibility of a being who stands outside the natural order acting within it. More pointedly, Lewis noted that the people who first told miracle stories were not, as Hume implied, naive primitives who didn't know how the world worked. Joseph knew that women do not conceive without a man. The disciples knew that dead people do not rise. Their astonishment is in the text because the events were astonishing to them too.

Lewis's argument doesn't prove any particular miracle happened. What it does is clear the ground — establishing that miracles are not philosophically impossible before we turn to the historical evidence.

The twentieth century introduced a different kind of challenge to the miracles, one from inside the church rather than outside it. Rudolf Bultmann, the German New Testament scholar, argued in the 1940s and 50s that the miracle stories in the Gospels needed to be "demythologized" — stripped of their supernatural elements to recover the existential truth underneath. For Bultmann, the modern world could no longer accept a "three-story universe" of heaven, earth, and underworld, or the idea that divine beings intervened in natural processes. The miracles were mythological expressions of theological conviction, not historical reports.

Bultmann's project was enormously influential and remains so in some quarters. But it has also been seriously criticized, including from within the liberal theological tradition. The problem is that demythologizing doesn't leave you with a cleaner Christianity — it leaves you with a fundamentally different one, in which the central claims of the faith (resurrection, incarnation, new creation) are reduced to metaphors for human experience. At some point, a Christianity without the resurrection is not Christianity making a strategic communication adjustment; it's a different religion.

On the other side of the spectrum, N.T. Wright, the former Bishop of Durham and one of the most important New Testament scholars of the last fifty years, has made the most sustained historical case for the bodily resurrection of Jesus in recent scholarship. In The Resurrection of the Son of God (Fortress Press, 2003), Wright surveys beliefs about life after death across the ancient Greco-Roman and Jewish worlds and shows that what the early Christians believed about Jesus was genuinely unprecedented — a mutation within Jewish resurrection hope that cannot be explained as either wish-fulfillment or borrowed mythology. He argues that two facts — the empty tomb and the resurrection appearances — each demand explanation, and that the best historical explanation for both, when assessed by normal historical criteria, is that Jesus was bodily raised from the dead.

Wright is not asking anyone to take this on faith. He's making a historical argument, subject to historical scrutiny. Not everyone finds it convincing — historians disagree, as they do about everything. But his work has made it impossible to dismiss the resurrection as intellectually untenable.

Between Bultmann's demythologizing and Wright's historical defense, there are a range of positions serious Christians have held.

Some distinguish between different categories of miracle. The resurrection — the bodily raising of Jesus from the dead — is treated as the hinge event on which everything else turns, while other miracles (the feeding of the five thousand, say, or the changing of water to wine) are read with more interpretive flexibility. Paul himself, in 1 Corinthians 15, stakes the entire faith on the resurrection while leaving room for disagreement about much else: if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile.

Others draw on the tradition of reading miracles as signs — events whose significance is theological rather than primarily historical. In John's Gospel in particular, the miracles are explicitly called semeia, signs, pointing beyond themselves to who Jesus is. This doesn't mean they didn't happen; it means that their primary purpose in the text is revelation rather than demonstration.

Where does the Episcopal tradition stand?

The creeds — the Apostles' Creed and the Nicene Creed, both part of the Book of Common Prayer — affirm the virgin birth, the resurrection of the body, and the ascension. These are not optional for Episcopalians. They are part of the faith as the tradition has received and affirmed it.

But the tradition has never required that every miracle narrative be read with the same hermeneutical flatness. The 39 Articles affirm that Scripture contains all things necessary for salvation — not that every passage requires a single, identical mode of reading. The Anglican tradition has always made room for scholarship, reason, and the kind of careful reading that asks what a text means before asking whether it is historically reportable.

What the tradition does not permit — and what Bultmann's project ultimately requires — is reducing the resurrection to metaphor. The resurrection is not a symbol for the triumph of good over evil, or a way of saying that Jesus's influence lived on. It is the claim that something happened to a dead body — something unprecedented, disruptive, and world-changing. The Episcopal tradition affirms that claim. How each person holds it, with what degree of certainty, amid what questions, is the work of a lifetime of faith.

So: did the miracles really happen?

Some of them, almost certainly in some form. The healing miracles have better historical attestation than most people realize — even hostile ancient sources do not deny that Jesus healed people, only dispute the source of the power. The resurrection is affirmed by the creeds and defended by serious historical scholarship. The nature miracles — water into wine, walking on water — are held with varying degrees of literalism across the tradition, and the church has not required uniformity.

What the church does require is that we take the texts seriously — that we not explain them away before we've read them carefully, and that we not use them as loyalty tests before we've asked what they're actually trying to say.

Where are you with this today? Maybe you've been holding the miracles at arm's length for years — not rejecting them exactly, but not quite sure what to do with them either. Maybe that uncertainty has made you feel like you're on the outside of something everyone else seems to hold without difficulty. You're not. The tradition has always had room for the person who approaches the resurrection with trembling hands. What the faith asks is not that you perform a certainty you don't have. It asks that you keep showing up — honestly, and open to being surprised by what you find.

Sources and further reading: John 2:1-11; Matthew 14:13-21; John 11:1-44; 1 Corinthians 15:14-17 (NRSV). C.S. Lewis, Miracles (Geoffrey Bles, 1947; revised Harper, 1960). David Hume, "Of Miracles," in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1748). Rudolf Bultmann, "New Testament and Mythology" (1941), in Kerygma and Myth (Harper & Row, 1961). N.T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Fortress Press, 2003). The Apostles' Creed; The Nicene Creed, Book of Common Prayer (1979), pp. 96, 358. The 39 Articles of Religion, Article VIII.

A Cup of Cold Water

Sun, 21 Jun 2026 11:40:09 GMT

A Cup of Cold Water

There is a verse so small you could almost miss it.

"Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple — truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward."

One cup. One little one. One ordinary gesture in the name of love.

Jesus is wrapping up his instructions to the disciples in Matthew 10. He has just told them they will face rejection. He has told them families will be divided. He has told them to expect hostility from the very people they go to serve. And then he lands on this: a cup of cold water. Not a conquest. Not a cathedral. A cup. Given to someone small. Given in his name.

That is the measure of faithfulness. But before we can receive that measure, we need to sit with a harder question — the same one the prophets have always forced on us. Are we willing to hear what is actually true?

The Prophet Nobody Wanted to Hear

Our Track 2 Old Testament reading drops us into a tense exchange between two prophets: Jeremiah and Hananiah. Hananiah is the popular one. He is telling the people what they want to hear — that the exile will end soon, that the yoke of Babylon will be broken, that peace is coming. The crowd loves it.

Jeremiah's response is quietly devastating. He says: I hope you're right. I genuinely hope this comes true. But here is how you know a prophet is real — when the word they speak actually comes to pass.

Jeremiah has no interest in being prophetically correct for its own sake. He is not performing discernment. He is holding out a standard. False prophets promise comfortable peace that never arrives. Real prophets speak a harder word and stake their reputation on the truth eventually bearing them out.

The question is not: who speaks with the most confidence? The question is: who is telling the truth about what is happening to us?

Paul picks up that question and turns it inward.

Whose Are You?

Paul's letter to the Romans this week asks something that sounds blunt and old-fashioned but is actually quite urgent: Who are you obedient to?

He is speaking to people who know what it is to be enslaved — not metaphorically, but as a lived reality in the Roman world. And he borrows that language deliberately. There is no such thing as a life oriented toward nothing. You are always in the service of something. The question is whether that something leads toward death or toward life.

"The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

This is not about moral perfectionism. It is about orientation — the direction your life is pointed. Presented to God as an instrument of righteousness is Paul's way of saying: let your body, your hands, your voice be in the service of the thing that leads to life, not the thing that diminishes it.

Which raises the question that lands in our laps this particular June. Because the people whose lives are most at stake in this political moment are not abstractions. They are people with bodies. People who need water.

Why Pride Month Matters Right Now

Pride began as a protest.

In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street in New York City. It was not the first such raid. It would not have been the last. But that night, the people inside — many of them Black and brown trans women, drag queens, gay men with nowhere else to go — pushed back. The marches that followed the following June became what we now call Pride.

This is the 57th anniversary of that uprising. And it is no small thing that we are reading these words on June 28 — the exact date of the Stonewall raid. That is not a coincidence the lectionary planned, but it is one worth receiving. If you thought the need for Pride had passed, 2026 is here to correct that impression.

The Supreme Court this spring ruled that state laws banning conversion therapy for minors violate the First Amendment. Conversion therapy — the discredited, harmful practice of attempting to change a child's sexual orientation or gender identity through coercive psychological intervention — is now being legally protected speech in more than twenty states that previously banned it. Federal gender-affirming healthcare protections have been stripped from federal employees. Transgender people are seeking asylum from the United States at rates that now exceed requests from any other country. Corporate sponsors are quietly disappearing from Pride events, unwilling to be seen celebrating the people they featured on their June marketing just months ago. It is, as one communications officer put it, "an unprecedented moment."

The Church has something to say about unprecedented moments. Jesus, in fact, already said it.

Whoever Welcomes

"Whoever welcomes you welcomes me."

That is not a small statement. That is the entire theological architecture of hospitality. To welcome someone — really welcome them, not tolerate them, not accommodate them with asterisks, but welcome them into the fullness of the community — is to welcome the Christ who comes disguised in their face.

"One of these little ones."

In Matthew's gospel, the little ones are the vulnerable. The overlooked. The ones whom the powerful do not think about, or decide are too small to protect. They are the ones whose welfare Jesus specifically, emphatically refuses to make negotiable.

Who are the little ones right now? The LGBTQ+ teenager in a state where conversion therapy is now legal. The transgender person whose healthcare has been stripped. The same-sex couple watching the legal ground shift beneath them. The drag performer who has received threats in the mail. The family who left the United States — who literally sought refuge elsewhere — because raising a transgender child here has become too dangerous.

A cup of cold water.

Not a grand gesture. Not a resolution passed by a governing body. Not a task force. A cup. Given to someone small. Given in the name of love. And here is the thing about a cup of cold water — you have to be close enough to hand it over. Which is exactly where the Church finds itself now, if it is willing to be there.

The Church at the Margins

The Episcopal Church has spent decades navigating its own transition — from an institution of establishment power to something smaller, more marginal, and if we are honest, more free. The days when bishops were automatically civic leaders, when an Episcopal parish was the de facto center of respectable community life — those days are largely gone.

This can feel like loss. Sometimes it is loss.

But a parish that has learned to exist at the margins is a parish that knows how to be with the people the powerful have decided don't matter. A bilingual congregation that holds together across difference every single Sunday. A community that has been practicing welcome — not as a slogan but as a liturgical act, as an orientation of the body — is already living what the wider Church is still learning to articulate.

Jeremiah's test of the true prophet is whether the word holds. The word we are speaking here — you are welcome, you are beloved, your body is not a problem to be managed — that word has to hold when it becomes costly to speak it. This is the moment when it becomes costly. And so this is also the moment when the cup either gets handed over, or it doesn't.

None of These Will Lose Their Reward

Welcoming people when it is easy is not the thing Jesus is commending. It is welcoming people when it costs you something. When your name shows up on a list. When a sponsor drops out. When someone in the community pushes back. When the culture has decided that some people are more worth protecting than others.

That is when a cup of cold water becomes an act of defiance.

That is when welcome becomes a theological statement.

Paul says: present your members as instruments of righteousness. Your body. Your voice. Your pew. Your parish hall. Your name on a sign outside a building. These are all instruments. The question is what they are in the service of.

Pride Month is a protest. It born in resistance and it belongs to that tradition. But for those of us who gather in was the name of Jesus — who was himself executed by the state for the wrong kind of welcome — Pride Month is also a spiritual practice. A practice of seeing clearly who the little ones are. A practice of offering them something ordinary and essential. Water.

None of these will lose their reward.

Not the ones who welcome. And not the ones who are welcomed.

That is the promise. It is enough.

What Happens When a Community Stays

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 13:46:27 GMT

What happens when a community stays?

I've been thinking about a conversation I had in the parish hall a while back.

It was after the 10:30. Most people had cleared out. I was standing there with a cup of coffee, the way you do when you're not quite ready to let Sunday go, talking with someone who'd been coming to Sts. MM&M for a few months.

She told me she hadn't been looking for a church when she found us. She'd been looking for a place to breathe. She'd walked in one Sunday not entirely sure why — something made her turn into the parking lot, she said, and she just went with it. Somebody handed her coffee. Sat near her. Didn't pepper her with questions or hand her a visitor card or make her feel like a project.

She kept coming back. Not because she had everything figured out. Because whatever was happening here was the most real thing she'd touched in a long time.

And somewhere in those weeks — in the liturgy, in a conversation after service, in a Sunday morning where English and Spanish were woven into the same prayer — something shifted. A name arrived for what she'd been feeling.

She said: I think I'd been carrying it for years. I just didn't know what to call it.

I've sat with that a lot since then.

Because I think that's actually what we're doing here — and I mean that in the most ordinary, unglamorous sense. Not a program. Not an outreach strategy. Just people staying long enough for other people to find the name.

That's harder than it sounds. Staying is harder than starting. Starting has energy and momentum. Staying is what you do on the Sundays when you're tired, when the meeting ran long, when you wonder if any of it is making a difference. Staying is what you do when someone walks in for the third week in a row and still seems closed off and you just... keep showing up anyway.

Staying is the thing.

This Sunday's readings put Jeremiah front and center. And I keep coming back to him.

He tried to quit. That's the part we don't talk about enough. He made an actual decision — I will not speak in God's name anymore. The cost is too high. The mockery has gone on too long. I'm done.

And then he writes: within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones. I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.

He cannot.

That word — cannot — is the most honest thing in the passage. Not he won't. Not he's choosing not to. He genuinely cannot stop. Something placed in him refuses to go quiet no matter how much he wants it to.

I think about the people in this congregation who know that feeling. Who have tried, in their own way, to step back — and found themselves showing up anyway. Who are tired and still here. Who wonder sometimes if it's worth it and keep coming back before they've answered the question.

That's a fire that doesn't belong to you, burning anyway.

Here's what I want to say to the person reading this who has been the one staying:

Thank you isn't big enough. But also — I want you to know what your staying actually does.

It creates space for someone else's name to arrive.

The woman I talked with in the parish hall didn't find God through an event or a program or a particularly brilliant sermon. She found God because someone handed her coffee and sat with her and didn't ask too many questions. Because the community around her just kept being itself — week after week — until something in her that had been locked up for years finally had room to open.

That's everything.

Jesus says in Matthew's gospel that not one sparrow falls apart from the Father. He's not promising the sparrows won't fall. He's saying the falling doesn't happen somewhere God isn't.

I think about that when I think about the people who walk through our doors carrying weight they haven't named yet. God is already in them. Already present in whatever brought them to that parking lot on that particular Sunday. We're not introducing people to a God who was absent before they arrived. We're just staying long enough — being present enough — for what was already there to become visible.

Nobody taught me to expect this kind of ministry. Less dramatic. More patient. Less about what we do and more about whether we stay.

The coffee hour conversation I mentioned — it stayed with me long enough that I tried to write my way into it. What it felt like from the inside. What this community does without always knowing it's doing it.

I'm not sure I got all the way there. But I got close enough to know that what happens in that parish hall on a Sunday morning, over bad coffee and good company, is not a small thing.

It is, I think, exactly what the church is for.

The staying. The sitting with. The willingness to be present long enough for someone else's name to come.

That's the fire in our bones.

And it will not go out.

Hard Questions: What do we do with the violent God of the Old Testament

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 12:44:08 GMT

What do we do with the Violent God of the Old Testament

This is the one that keeps people up at night.

God commands the slaughter of the Canaanites — men, women, and children. God hardens Pharaoh's heart and then punishes him for the hardness God created. God kills Uzzah on the spot for touching the Ark of the Covenant to keep it from falling. God orders the execution of people for gathering wood on the Sabbath. The God of the flood drowns the world.

If you've read the Old Testament with any seriousness, you've run into this. And the answers the church usually offers don't quite cover it. This article will not cover it either. But I want to take the problem seriously, lay out the real options, and tell you where I land — while being honest that where I land is not where everyone lands, and that the question remains genuinely open among careful readers.

First, the options. There are several positions serious theologians have taken, and they're worth naming clearly.

Marcion's solution — rejected by the early church, but persistent. Marcion of Sinope, a second-century theologian, concluded that the God of the Old Testament and the God Jesus revealed were simply two different beings — the violent creator God of Israel versus the loving Father Jesus proclaimed. He threw out the Old Testament entirely. The early church rejected this as heresy, and for good reason: Jesus himself quotes the Old Testament constantly, calls its God his Father, and says he came not to abolish but to fulfill. But Marcion keeps getting reinvented, and it's worth naming why — because the problem he was responding to is real.

The hyperbole argument. Several contemporary Old Testament scholars, including John Walton and others working in ancient Near Eastern studies, argue that the extreme language of the conquest narratives — "kill every living thing," "utterly destroy" — reflects a standard genre of ancient war rhetoric, not literal commands to genocide. Other ancient Near Eastern texts from the same period use identical hyperbolic language to describe military victories that clearly did not involve total annihilation. The Hebrew word herem, translated "devote to destruction" or "utterly destroy," described the dedication of conquered territory to God — not necessarily the literal killing of every person in it. The later presence of Canaanites in the land, the commands not to intermarry with them, the stories of survivors like Rahab — all of this suggests the texts themselves don't describe what a literal reading implies. This is a serious scholarly argument that deserves more attention than it usually gets in church.

The divine prerogative argument. Augustine and others in the tradition argued that God, as the author of life, has the prerogative to take it — and that commanding Israel to drive out the Canaanites was an act of divine judgment upon a people whose wickedness had accumulated over generations. This position has serious defenders, but it also has a serious problem: it can be used to justify almost anything, and historically it has been. The church's track record of invoking divine sanction for violence — the Crusades, the conquest of the Americas, apartheid — should make us deeply cautious about arguments that place violent acts beyond moral scrutiny because God commanded them.

The cruciform hermeneutic. The most sustained recent attempt at a constructive answer comes from theologian Gregory Boyd, in The Crucifixion of the Warrior God (Fortress Press, 2017) and its more accessible companion Cross Vision (Fortress Press, 2017). Boyd argues that the violent portraits of God in the Old Testament should not be read at face value but through the lens of the cross — that the same divine self-emptying we see in the crucifixion was present when God, accommodating himself to the fallen, violence-prone worldview of ancient Israel, permitted his image to be distorted by that culture's understanding of divine action. Boyd is not without critics — his argument requires significant interpretive moves that not everyone finds convincing — but he takes the problem more seriously than most, and the conversation he has opened is genuinely important.

The developmental argument. A related approach reads the Old Testament as a record of Israel's developing understanding of God — an understanding that was always partial, always shaped by the culture and limitations of its time, and always moving toward something more complete. The Old Testament itself contains this tension: the same tradition that commands the slaughter of Amalekites also contains the book of Jonah, where God refuses to destroy a foreign city and explicitly rebukes Israel's desire for vengeance. The tradition is not monolithic. It is a conversation across centuries, and the later voices push back against the earlier ones.

Where does the Episcopal tradition land?

The Episcopal Church does not have an official position on the violent texts of the Old Testament specifically. But it does have a hermeneutical framework — a way of reading Scripture — that bears directly on the question. The tradition has never required a flat, literalist reading of every text. The 39 Articles affirm that not everything in the Old Testament applies directly to Christians, and that the civil and ceremonial laws of Israel are not binding on Christian communities.

More fundamentally, the Episcopal tradition reads the whole of Scripture through the lens of the incarnation and the cross. Jesus is understood as the fullest and most complete revelation of who God is. When the New Testament shows us a God who refuses to call down fire on Samaritans, who tells Peter to put away his sword, who forgives from the cross — that picture has authority over texts that show God commanding slaughter. This is not a liberal softening of Scripture. It is how the tradition has always read it.

I don't think the hyperbole argument fully resolves it — there are texts that are hard to read as anything but literal commands. I don't think the divine prerogative argument is safe to use — history has shown too clearly where it leads. I find Boyd's cruciform hermeneutic genuinely compelling, though I hold it with some tentativeness. I find the developmental reading persuasive as a partial account. And I think the honest position for anyone who reads these texts carefully is to acknowledge that they present a genuine theological problem — not a problem to be explained away, but one to be sat with, returned to, and held in tension with the fuller picture of God that the whole of Scripture, culminating in Jesus, offers.

The tradition at its most honest has sometimes said: we don't fully know what to do with this. What we do know is who God is in Christ. And we read everything else in that light.

Where are you with this today? Maybe this is the question that's been making you feel like honest reading disqualifies you from faithful belief. It doesn't. The people who wrote these texts were themselves wrestling with who God is and what God requires — and the wrestling is right there in the text. You're not doing something wrong by noticing. Stay with it. Ask it again the next time you open that book. The question itself is a form of engagement, and engagement is what the tradition has always asked for.

Sources and further reading: Deuteronomy 7:1-2; 20:16-17; Joshua 6:21; 1 Samuel 15; Jonah 4 (NRSV). Gregory A. Boyd, The Crucifixion of the Warrior God (Fortress Press, 2017); Cross Vision (Fortress Press, 2017). John H. Walton and J. Harvey Walton, The Lost World of the Israelite Conquest (IVP Academic, 2017). Christian Hofreiter, Making Sense of Old Testament Genocide (Oxford University Press, 2018). The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral (1886/1888). The 39 Articles of Religion, Articles VII and VIII. The Book of Common Prayer (1979), Catechism, p. 853.

Hard Questions: Does God Have a Gender?

Mon, 08 Jun 2026 14:09:00 GMT

Does God Have a Gender?

The question makes some people uncomfortable, which is usually a sign it's worth asking.

We've been calling God "he" for so long that it feels less like a linguistic choice and more like a biological fact. But it isn't. It's a metaphor — one so deeply embedded in Christian practice that most people have stopped noticing it's a metaphor at all. And when that happens, something gets lost.

The dominant pronoun for God in Scripture is masculine. Hebrew, like all Semitic languages, assigns grammatical gender to nouns, and God — Yahweh — is grammatically masculine in Hebrew. The primary images for God in the Old Testament are mostly male: Father, King, Warrior, Shepherd. Anyone who tells you the Bible is gender-neutral about God is not reading carefully.

But the same Bible reaches, in some of its most striking passages, for something else entirely.

Isaiah is the most persistent of the biblical writers in this direction. In Isaiah 49:15, God asks: Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. In Isaiah 66:13, God says directly: As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you. In Isaiah 42:14, God is compared to a woman in labor, crying out and gasping. These are not incidental images. They are deliberate theological moves by a writer who reached for maternal language because it said something true that the other images couldn't quite reach.

Jesus does the same thing. In Matthew 23:37, he describes himself gathering his people as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings — not a rooster, not a shepherd, a mother hen. In Luke 15, the parable of the lost coin places a woman searching for something precious directly alongside a father running to meet his returning son. Both images, side by side, are telling us something about who God is.

Deuteronomy 32:18 tells Israel it has forgotten the God who gave birth to it. The Hebrew word used for that act of creation is yaladh — the same word used for a woman in labor.

The biblical writers did not seem to find maternal imagery for God theologically dangerous. They reached for it when it said something the male images couldn't.

The church fathers did the same, though this is less often taught.

Clement of Alexandria, writing around 200 AD, said: In his ineffable essence he is father; in his compassion to us he became mother. Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth-century theologian, described the divine nature in feminine terms as a tender mother joining in the inarticulate cries of her infant. Augustine used the image of God as nursing mother to describe how God sustains the faithful.

Then there is Julian of Norwich, the fourteenth-century English mystic and theologian whose Revelations of Divine Love is one of the most significant works of Christian spirituality ever written in English. Julian developed, across multiple chapters, a sustained theological account of Jesus as mother — not a passing metaphor but a carefully worked argument. She wrote: God is as really our Mother as he is our Father. She described Jesus bearing us into life as a mother bears a child, sustaining us as a mother nurses her infant, receiving us back when we fail as a mother receives a frightened child. She knew full well who Jesus was historically. She was saying something precise about the nature of divine love — that it contains and exceeds all human categories, including this one.

Julian is a recognized saint in the Episcopal Church. Her feast day is May 8.

The Episcopal Church has been in a sustained theological conversation about the language we use for God for decades. The 2018 General Convention authorized Enriching Our Worship, a collection of supplemental liturgies that expand the imagery for God beyond exclusively masculine pronouns — drawing directly on the biblical and theological resources described above. The 80th and 81st General Conventions in 2022 and 2024 continued this work, establishing a constitutional framework for liturgical development that specifically calls for inclusive and expansive language and imagery for divinity.

This is a recovery, not an invention. The tradition has always contained more than we've been using.

The 39 Articles of Religion, foundational to Anglican doctrine, affirm that God is without body, parts, or passions — incorporeal, beyond physical form. A being without a body does not have biological sex. The question of God's gender is, at root, a question about the adequacy of our language for a reality that exceeds it.

So why does the language matter?

Because what we can say shapes what we can see. If the only images available for God are male — Father, King, Lord — then women and girls spend their lives with a God who looks like something they are not. The creation account in Genesis 1:27 says that both women and men are made in the image of God. When our language for God contracts to the exclusively male, that claim quietly loses its footing.

Feminist theologian Judith Plaskow put it plainly: when our images for God become inadequate, they stop pointing toward God and start blocking the experience of God.

The Episcopal Church's move toward expansive language is not about replacing the Father with a Mother. It's about using the full range of what Scripture and the tradition have always offered — a God who is, as Julian of Norwich wrote seven hundred years ago, as really our Mother as our Father, and who exceeds both images entirely.

Where are you with this today? Maybe the exclusively male language for God has always created a small distance you couldn't quite name — a sense that the God being described was somehow not entirely for you. Or maybe this conversation feels like something precious is being pulled away. Both of those feelings are real and worth sitting with. The question underneath all of this is the same for everyone: is the God you carry around with you big enough for who God actually is? The tradition's wisest voices have never stopped asking that question. You're in good company.

Sources and further reading: Genesis 1:27; Deuteronomy 32:18; Isaiah 42:14; Isaiah 49:15; Isaiah 66:13; Matthew 23:37; Luke 15:8-10 (NRSV). Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapters 59-60 (trans. Elizabeth Spearing, Penguin Classics, 1998). Clement of Alexandria, "Salvation to the Rich Man" and "Christ the Educator" (c. 200 AD). Gregory of Nyssa, homilies (c. 380 AD). The 39 Articles of Religion, Article I. Episcopal Church General Convention, Resolution 2018-D078; Resolution 2022-A059; Resolution 2024-A072. Judith Plaskow, Standing Again at Sinai: Judaism from a Feminist Perspective (Harper & Row, 1990).

Both. Together.

Mon, 08 Jun 2026 14:03:07 GMT

Reflection, Proper 6a and Juneteenth

There is a prayer the Episcopal Church has prayed for centuries. Most Sundays it goes by without much notice — part of the liturgical furniture, spoken before the readings, fading into the next thing.

This Sunday I want to stop at it. Because this Sunday is Juneteenth weekend. And what we are asking God for in that prayer is harder than it sounds.

The Collect for this week asks God to keep the church in steadfast faith and love, so that we may — proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion .

Two pairs. Truth and boldness. Justice and compassion.

Read fast, it sounds like a nice summary of what churches are supposed to do. Read slow, it is a description of two things that are genuinely hard to hold together — and that the church has, with some regularity, failed to hold together at all.

Truth needs boldness because truth is costly.

Not all truth is controversial. Some of it is just true, and everyone agrees, and saying it costs nothing. But the truth this collect is talking about — the truth the church is called to proclaim — is the kind that has a price tag. It is the truth that the powerful would prefer remain unspoken. The truth that makes comfortable people uncomfortable. The truth that names what happened and refuses to look away.

On Juneteenth, that kind of truth sounds like this: enslaved people in Texas were not told they were free until June 19, 1865 — two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation had been signed. The war was over. The decree existed. But the people who held power over other people's bodies and labor did not volunteer that information. Someone had to go and say it out loud.

That is what bold proclamation looks like. Not inspirational. Not comfortable. Just true, spoken anyway, to people who needed to hear it and to systems that preferred the silence. The church has not always been the one riding into Galveston. More often than we would like to admit, the church has been on the other side — providing theological cover for the silence, baptizing the arrangements that kept some people in bondage and others in comfort. That is also true. And saying so is part of what boldness requires.

Justice needs compassion because justice without it becomes something else.

Compassion is not the same as niceness. It is not the smoothing-over of hard things, the pivot to silver linings, the reassurance that everything happens for a reason. Compassion is the refusal to be unmoved. It is what keeps justice from curdling into something punishing and self-righteous. It is the difference between speaking truth to wound and speaking truth because the wound is already there and someone has to name it before it can heal.

Juneteenth is not only a story about what was withheld. It is a story about what people did with freedom when it finally arrived — the churches built, the schools founded, the families reconstituted, the communities formed out of almost nothing. The compassion in that story is not soft. It is the kind that looks at what was lost and decides to build anyway.

That is what the collect is asking us to do. Not to choose between truth and compassion. Not to use one to escape the other. Both. Together.

The pairing is the point.

Truth without compassion becomes cruelty. It uses the right words to do damage, and calls it righteousness. Compassion without truth goes soft at exactly the wrong moment. It prioritizes the feelings of the people in the room over the reality of the people outside it. It mistakes gentleness for faithfulness. The church's long track record on race in America is a story of choosing one and abandoning the other. Boldness without compassion produced condemnation. Compassion without boldness produced silence. Neither one, alone, is the gospel.

What the collect asks for — what we are praying for this Sunday — is the harder thing. The thing that requires us to keep speaking when it costs something. To remain tender even when the truth is not tender at all.

Juneteenth is a federal holiday now. Which is good. It is also, like most things that get absorbed into official observance, at risk of becoming decorative — acknowledged, then set aside, the discomfort managed rather than inhabited.

The collect will not let us off that easily.

Proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion. Both. Together. That is the prayer. That is also the assignment.

Hard Questions: Can I be Angry at God?

Mon, 01 Jun 2026 14:05:54 GMT

Can I be Angry at God?

Yes.

That's the theological answer, and it hasn't changed in three thousand years. But the church has largely forgotten how to say it, and the forgetting has cost people something real.

Most churches don't teach anger at God. They teach around it. They teach gratitude, acceptance, trust, the peace that passes understanding. They teach that God's ways are higher than our ways, that suffering builds character, that we should cast our anxieties on him because he cares for us. All of that is in the Bible, and none of it is wrong.

But in teaching those things, the church quietly communicated something else: that the way you bring your pain to God should be managed. Composed. That you come to God with your grief processed and your faith intact, not with whatever is actually happening inside you.

The Bible models something almost shockingly different.

Start with Job. The book is forty-two chapters long, and most of it is Job arguing with God. He calls God his adversary. He accuses God of treating him unjustly. He demands an audience, a hearing, a chance to make his case. He says things that would make most church people quietly change the subject.

At the end of the book, God speaks. Not to condemn Job for his anger. God turns to Job's three friends — the ones who spent the whole book telling Job to calm down, repent, and accept God's mysterious ways — and says: you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has (Job 42:7).

The ones who defended God with settled, comfortable answers are the ones God rebukes. The one who argued and demanded and refused to pretend things were fine is the one God commends. Scholars have wrestled with this verse for centuries, and there's genuine debate about exactly what Job got right. But the most straightforward reading is this: Job's honesty — his refusal to say more than he knew, his insistence on bringing his real experience to God rather than a polished version of it — was itself a form of faithfulness. God does not appear to reward the friends for protecting his reputation. God appears to reward Job for telling the truth.

The Psalms cover the same ground across 150 poems.

Walter Brueggemann, whose work on the Psalms reshaped how a generation of scholars and preachers read them, spent much of his career arguing that the church made a serious error by letting the lament psalms disappear from its liturgical life. In The Message of the Psalms (Augsburg, 1984) and his essay "The Costly Loss of Lament," he argues that when a community stops giving voice to grief and anger before God, the relationship with God becomes managed and one-sided rather than real. As he wrote, "It's no wonder the Church has intuitively avoided these psalms. They lead us into the dangerous acknowledgment of how life really is. They lead us into the presence of God where everything is not polite and civil."

More than a third of the Psalms are laments. Psalm 13 opens: How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? Psalm 44 accuses God of sleeping on the job. Psalm 88 — the darkest chapter in the entire Bible — ends in unresolved darkness with no morning after the night, no turn toward praise. These are not the prayers of people who had their grief sorted before they came to God. They are the prayers of people in the middle of something terrible, saying so, directly to the one they held responsible.

God put them in the Bible.

There's a distinction worth holding here. Anger at God is not the same as rejecting God. The logic runs the other direction. You don't get angry at someone you've given up on. You get angry at someone whose presence still matters enough to fight inside of.

Brueggemann describes the lament psalms not as statements of resignation but as insistences — demands upon a God who can and must keep promises. The accusation is a form of trust. It says: I still believe you are there. I still believe you can do something. And I am not going to pretend otherwise.

That is a more demanding faith than quiet acceptance. It is also more honest.

One boundary the tradition draws here is worth naming clearly. The anger the Psalms model is anger directed at God — not at other people on God's behalf, and not used as license for harm. The imprecatory psalms — those that call down curses on enemies — are a more complicated matter the church has always approached with care. What the tradition commends is the practice of taking your genuine fury, grief, and accusation directly to God rather than performing composure you don't have.

C.S. Lewis gives us perhaps the most honest modern account of what this looks like. In A Grief Observed (1961), written in the raw months after his wife died of cancer, he described feeling as though the door to God had been slammed and bolted. He asked whether God was a cosmic sadist. He wrote it down without softening it. And in doing so, he gave language to everyone who has ever felt that way and assumed they were the only one.

He wasn't. Neither are you.

So: can you be angry at God?

Yes. The tradition not only permits it — it provides a whole grammar for it. The Psalms are that grammar. Job is that grammar. The unprocessed, unpolished cry brought directly to God is one of the oldest forms of prayer we have. God has heard it before. According to Job 42:7, God prefers it to comfort.

Where are you with this today? Maybe the anger has been there for a while — low and steady, or sharp and specific — and you've been working it into something more presentable before bringing it anywhere near God. You don't have to do that. The anger is already known. What this tradition has always made room for is prayer that comes unedited — the real version, not the managed one. That's not a failure of faith. For three thousand years, it's been one of the most faithful things a person can do.

Sources and further reading: Job 42:7; Psalm 13; Psalm 44; Psalm 88 (NRSV). Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary (Augsburg, 1984); "The Costly Loss of Lament," Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 36 (1986). C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed (Faber and Faber, 1961).

The People who Laughed

Mon, 01 Jun 2026 13:56:42 GMT

Proper 5a, 2026

They showed up.

That's the first thing worth saying about the crowd at the synagogue leader's house. When word came that his daughter had died, they came. They brought the flute players — which sounds strange to us, but in first-century Jewish culture, music was part of mourning. You hired musicians. You gathered. You made noise together, because grief is not something human beings were meant to carry in silence. These were the neighbors who knew what to do when someone died, and they did it.

When a text message passes for condolence these days, the people who actually come — who sit in the hard room, who stay past the point of comfort — these were those people.

And then Jesus walked in and told them the girl was only sleeping.

And they laughed at him.

I've read that line probably a hundred times and it still catches me. Not because the laughter is cruel — I don't think it is. But because of where it comes from.

These are not people who have never believed in anything. These are not cynics who checked out long ago. These are the people who came. And I think that's exactly the point.

They had seen death before. That's what made them good at this. They knew the weight of a room where someone had just died — knew it in their bodies, the way you know things you've lived through enough times. They had sat with enough grief to recognize it, to move through it without flinching, to know what needed to be done. Their certainty about what they were looking at wasn't hardness. It was experience. It was everything they had learned the hard way. When Jesus said she is only sleeping, they laughed because they knew better.

And they were right that they knew better. By every ordinary measure, they were right.

Their certainty was earned. It wasn't carelessness or callousness that put them outside that room. It was the weight of every death they had already witnessed pressing down on this one, telling them: you know what this is. You've been here before.

And Jesus put them outside anyway.

Not because they were bad people. Not because they had failed some test of worthiness. But because what was about to happen in that room had no category in their experience, and without knowing it, they had stopped leaving room.

There's a word for that, and it isn't cynicism. It's something quieter and more understandable than that. It's what happens when the weight of what we know slowly, almost imperceptibly, becomes heavier than our capacity for surprise.

I think about this in relation to communities of faith — including ours. We have seen things. We have buried people we loved. We have watched promising moments come to nothing. We have prayed for outcomes that didn't come, and learned, because we are thoughtful and honest people, not to promise what we cannot guarantee. Real wisdom. The kind that costs something.

But wisdom and openness are not the same thing. And there are resurrection moments when the very experience that makes us wise is precisely what has to be set down at the door. Not discarded. Not pretended away. Set down, just for a moment, so that there is room for something that has no category yet.

The crowd found out later. The report spread through the whole district, Matthew says. They heard about it. Presumably they believed it. But they didn't see it. That's the difference between secondhand faith and firsthand witness.

The question this passage leaves me with isn't why did they laugh? That part is easy to understand.

The question is: what have I become so certain about that I've stopped leaving room?

Not what have I stopped believing. That's too dramatic. Just — what door have I quietly closed, not out of faithlessness, but out of the particular kind of knowing that comes from having seen too much?

That's worth sitting with before Sunday.

Hard Questions: Where is God when it's awful

Tue, 26 May 2026 13:00:09 GMT

Where is God when it's awful?

I have sat at a lot of bedsides. That's part of what hospice chaplaincy does to you — it puts you in rooms where the usual religious answers arrive and then fail, one by one, in the presence of actual dying. People don't need abstractions at the end. They need something true.

The question most people bring to those rooms — where is God in this? — is one of the hardest questions in the history of human thought. Theologians have a word for it: theodicy. It comes from the Greek words for God and justice. It names the problem of reconciling a God who is supposed to be all-powerful and all-good with a world that contains genuine, sometimes unbearable, suffering.

This article won't solve that problem. Nobody has. But the question deserves more than the answers the church usually offers, and that's what I want to try here.

The standard answers arrive fast. God has a plan. Everything happens for a reason. This suffering will make you stronger. God won't give you more than you can handle. Heaven will make it worth it.

These answers share a common instinct: to make suffering mean something — to fit it into a framework where God's goodness and power remain intact and the pain serves some larger purpose. Theologically, this belongs to what scholars call the "greater good" tradition of theodicy, which argues that God permits suffering because it leads to outcomes that couldn't exist without it. No courage without danger. No compassion without need. No faith without testing.

The Bible is not silent on this. Paul writes to the Romans that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope (Romans 5:3-4). The Letter to the Hebrews describes suffering as a discipline that produces the fruit of righteousness in those trained by it (Hebrews 12:11). These are serious biblical claims.

But applied too quickly, to the wrong person, in the wrong moment, they become pastoral catastrophe. When a parent buries a child and someone tells them God had a reason — the theology may be defensible and the damage is real. Some suffering is not, in any meaningful human sense, worth what it cost.

C.S. Lewis understood this better than almost anyone. In 1940 he wrote The Problem of Pain — a careful philosophical defense of God's goodness in the face of suffering. Twenty years later, after his wife Joy died of cancer, he picked up a notebook and wrote what became A Grief Observed (1961). It reads like a man discovering that his own earlier answers don't reach where he is now. He describes grief as a door slamming in his face. He asks whether God is a cosmic sadist. He writes with the fury of someone who built a theological house and is now living through a storm it wasn't designed for.

What Lewis found, at real cost, is the gap between theodicy as an intellectual exercise and theodicy as something you have to survive. The philosophical problem of evil is worth engaging seriously. But it does not reach the person sitting with a diagnosis, or standing at a graveside, or lying awake at three in the morning with a grief that won't lift.

So what does the Christian tradition actually offer people in that place?

N.T. Wright, in Evil and the Justice of God (IVP, 2006), argues that the Bible is less interested in explaining why suffering exists than in narrating what God is doing about it. The Old Testament, he observes, does not offer a philosophical treatise on the origin of evil. It offers instead what he calls "a narrative of God's projects of justice within a world of injustice." The primary biblical move is not explanation but engagement — God entering into the mess of human history, working to put things right from the inside rather than explaining them from a distance.

That engagement reaches its fullest expression in the crucifixion. The Christian claim, at its most scandalous, is that God did not watch suffering from a safe distance and issue explanations. God entered it. The cross is not primarily an answer to why suffering exists. It is the assertion that God has been where suffering is — has been abandoned, has cried out, has died — and that this changes what suffering means, even when it cannot explain it.

This is where Anglican theological honesty tends to land. There has never been an official Anglican teaching on theodicy. The tradition makes room for the honest answer, which is sometimes simply: I don't know. That is not a failure of faith. It is a refusal to say more than the evidence warrants.

The Psalms of lament hold the same territory from a different direction. Roughly a third of the Psalter is lament — raw, unresolved prayers of abandonment, accusation, and grief addressed directly to God. Psalm 88 is the darkest chapter in the entire Bible. It ends with no resolution, no morning after the darkness, no turn toward praise. Just night. It is in the canon. The community that assembled Scripture decided it belonged there.

What the lament tradition offers is not an answer to where God is. It offers a practice: bringing the question to God directly, without cleaning it up first. The demand to know becomes itself a form of prayer — evidence that the relationship is real enough to fight inside.

I have sat with people who were furious at God and people who felt nothing at all, and people who described something they could only call presence in the worst moments — not comfort exactly, but company. I cannot explain the variation. What I can say is that the tradition at its most honest does not promise that God will prevent the awful thing. It promises something stranger: that the awful thing is not the end of the story, and that God is somehow inside it.

Where is God when it's awful?

Closer than the silence makes it seem, and more hidden than we'd like. The cross says God does not watch from outside. The resurrection says suffering is not the final word. In between — in the middle of the loss and the diagnosis and the grief that won't move — what the church offers is not an explanation but a presence, and a community willing to sit in the dark without rushing you toward the light.

Some days that doesn't feel like enough. But it is not nothing, and it is what we have.

Where are you with this today? Maybe you're not reading this out of idle curiosity. Maybe something has happened, or is happening, and the silence has felt less like mystery and more like abandonment. If that's where you are, you're not the first person to sit in that silence and wonder if anyone is there. The tradition doesn't offer an explanation for it. What it offers is company — people across centuries who sat in the same dark and found their way through, and a God who, if the tradition is right, knows that darkness from the inside. You don't have to be okay. You just have to still be here.

Sources and further reading: Romans 5:3-4; Hebrews 12:11; Psalm 88 (NRSV). C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (Geoffrey Bles, 1940); A Grief Observed (Faber and Faber, 1961). N.T. Wright, Evil and the Justice of God (IVP Books, 2006). "Theodicy," An Episcopal Dictionary of the Church, Church Publishing Inc. Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta, "Theodicy: What Can We Say About Evil?" (2022).

Some Doubted

Mon, 25 May 2026 14:35:11 GMT

Trinity Sunday Reflection

Matthew almost didn't put it in.

Or maybe he absolutely meant to. Either way, it's there — one of the strangest sentences in the Gospel — tucked into the middle of the Great Commission like a confession nobody asked for.

The eleven go to Galilee. They see the risen Christ. They worship him.

And some doubted.

That's it. No follow-up. No explanation. Matthew doesn't tell us which ones were doubting or how many or whether they got over it before Jesus started talking. He just leaves it sitting there, plain as anything, and moves on.

The church has been trying to move past it ever since.

I get why. It's inconvenient. The Great Commission is supposed to be a triumphant moment — the risen Lord, the mountain, the mandate to go change the world. Doubt doesn't fit the frame. So we read right over it, or we treat it as a minor detail, or we quietly assume it must have resolved itself before anything important happened.

But it didn't resolve. Matthew didn't say it resolved. What Matthew said is that some of them doubted, and then Jesus commissioned all of them anyway.

Those two things exist in the same paragraph. They are not in tension in Matthew's mind. He doesn't see the doubt as a problem that needed to be fixed before the story could continue. He sees it as part of the story.

The people on that mountain were not a group of the spiritually ready. They were the ones who had followed Jesus for three years, watched him die, hidden behind locked doors, and then made their way to Galilee because he told them to. They showed up. They worshiped. And some of them, standing right there in front of the risen Christ, were still not sure.

I find that enormously comforting. Not in a cheap way.

Doubt is not the opposite of faith. It's what faith looks like in a human body. It's the gap between what we reach for and what we can fully hold, and that gap doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It might just mean you're paying attention.

We have built a church culture — and I say this as someone who lives inside it — that is deeply uncomfortable with doubt. We treat it like a symptom. Something to be diagnosed and resolved. You have questions? Here's a class. Here's a book. Here's a framework that will make it make sense.

And sometimes those things help. But sometimes the doubt isn't a problem to be solved. Sometimes it's just the honest condition of a person trying to believe something enormous with a brain that wasn't built for it.

Matthew knew this. He left it in the text.

What Jesus does with the doubt on that mountain is nothing. He doesn't address it. He doesn't wait for it to clear. He doesn't ask who's sure and who isn't before he starts talking. He just — speaks. To all of them. The certain ones and the uncertain ones and everybody in the middle.

All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go. Make disciples. Baptize. Teach. I am with you always, to the end of the age.

The doubters heard that. The doubters got commissioned. The doubters went.

And the church that exists today — this fractured, resilient, maddening thing that has somehow survived two thousand years — was built in part by people who weren't entirely sure.

That should tell us something about what faith actually requires.

Not certainty. Not the absence of questions. Not a clean resolution.

Just showing up. Making the trip to Galilee. Worshiping even when something in you doesn't quite close all the way.

The commission came anyway. It still does.

Hard Questions: Doubt

Wed, 20 May 2026 13:48:45 GMT

Is it okay to doubt?

Nobody talks about it in church. Or if they do, they talk about it in a way that makes it clear doubt is a problem to be solved — a temporary condition on the way to certainty, something to pray through and get past. But a lot of people sitting in pews on Sunday morning are carrying doubt they've never said out loud, because they're not sure the church can handle it.

Here's what I want to say to those people: the church should be able to handle it. And if it can't, that's the church's problem, not yours.

There's a man in the Gospel of John who has become the patron saint of everyone in that situation. His name is Thomas, and the church has been calling him "Doubting Thomas" for so long that it's hardened into something like an insult — shorthand for weak faith, for the person who needs to see it to believe it.

Read the story again. Thomas doesn't leave. He stays in the room with the other disciples a full week after the resurrection, even after they've told him what they saw and he's told them he doesn't buy it. When Jesus appears, he doesn't lecture Thomas about the importance of faith. He offers his hands and his side — exactly what Thomas asked for.

Recent New Testament scholarship has pushed back on the "doubting" label with good reason. Larry Hurtado, in his landmark study Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Eerdmans, 2005), notes that Thomas's demand for evidence is answered positively by Jesus, not condemned. The Greek word translated as "doubt" in verse 27 — apistos — is closer in meaning to "unbelieving," and what Jesus says at the end is not a scolding of Thomas. It's a word for everyone who comes after — the generations of readers who won't have the option Thomas had, and who will have to find their way without physical evidence. That's most of us.

Thomas ends the story with the highest Christological confession in the entire Gospel of John: My Lord and my God. The one who demanded evidence becomes the one who confesses most fully. John put that there on purpose.

The church has had a complicated relationship with doubt throughout its history. Certain Protestant traditions have treated it as spiritual failure — a deficiency of faith to be overcome. Some strands of progressive Christianity have swung the other direction, making doubt itself into a kind of virtue, as if uncertainty were the destination rather than part of the journey.

The Episcopal tradition sits somewhere more honest than either of those. The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral — the four-point framework that defines Anglican and Episcopal identity since 1888 — does not demand doctrinal uniformity as a condition of belonging. The Book of Common Prayer holds together people of genuinely different theological convictions within a shared liturgical life. What the tradition has always asked for is not certainty but engagement: showing up, praying together, wrestling with Scripture, participating in the sacraments, living out the promises of the baptismal covenant. Doubt can coexist with all of those things. Often it deepens them.

Barbara Brown Taylor, Episcopal priest and theologian, draws a distinction in Learning to Walk in the Dark (HarperOne, 2014) that gets at something important here. She separates belief — intellectual assent to specific propositions — from faith, which she describes as trust. You can carry real uncertainty about specific doctrines, she argues, while still staking your life on something larger. Belief is what you think. Faith is what you live inside of. The two are not the same thing, and collapsing them does damage to both.

Frederick Buechner put a sharper edge on it: "Doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. It keeps it awake and moving." Doubt is not the opposite of faith. It is what keeps faith from calcifying into something too small and too certain to be true.

There's a category of Psalms that the church has mostly stopped teaching: the lament. Roughly a third of the Psalms are laments — raw, unresolved prayers of grief, confusion, and accusation directed straight at God. Psalm 88 ends in darkness with no resolution. Psalm 22 opens with My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? These are not prayers of triumphant, settled faith. They are prayers of people who are struggling and saying so — not to each other, but to God.

Jesus quotes Psalm 22 from the cross.

The tradition of bringing doubt and anguish directly to God, rather than polishing it into something more presentable, is ancient. It is threaded through the Hebrew Bible, through the Psalter, through Job — who spends most of his book demanding that God answer for what has happened to him, and whom God, at the end, commends for speaking what is right. The church somewhere along the way decided that faith required a certain kind of composure. The Bible never said that.

So: is it okay to doubt?

Yes. The Thomas story doesn't end with Thomas being corrected for asking hard questions. It ends with him saying something nobody else in the Gospel has said. The doubt didn't disqualify him. It was the door he walked through.

What this tradition asks — what I ask — is not that you arrive with your questions answered. It's that you bring them with you. To the text. To the community. To God, who in this story at least, shows up for the people who are honest about what they need.

Where are you with this today? Maybe doubt has been your secret for a long time — the thing you carry into church and set carefully aside before anyone notices. Maybe you've been waiting until you have it sorted out before you let yourself belong somewhere. You don't have to wait. The doubt you're carrying right now isn't evidence that you're doing this wrong. It might be the most honest thing about you. Bring it. God has been meeting people in exactly that place since the beginning.

Sources and further reading: John 20:19-31 (NRSV). Larry Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Eerdmans, 2005). Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark (HarperOne, 2014). Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (Harper & Row, 1973). The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral (1886/1888). The Book of Common Prayer (1979), Baptismal Covenant, pp. 304-305.

The Wrong Room

Wed, 20 May 2026 12:58:21 GMT

Pentecost Reflection

The doors were locked because they were afraid.

That’s where John’s Pentecost story begins — not with triumph, not with the disciples gathered in expectant prayer, but with a room full of frightened people who had heard the news of resurrection and responded by finding the nearest door and bolting it shut.

We know this room.

We’ve been in it as individuals — when the thing we feared most arrived anyway and we didn’t know what came next. We’ve been in it as communities of faith — when the world shifted faster than our institutions could follow, when the old ways stopped working and nobody wanted to be the one to say it. The doors were locked. We called it prudence. We called it faithfulness. Sometimes we just called it another day.

Into that room — without knocking, without waiting for an invitation, without giving anyone time to prepare — Jesus comes. He stands among them, breathes on them, and says something that should have been impossible: Receive the Holy Spirit.

Not when you’re ready. Not after you’ve sorted things out. Now. Here. In the locked room.

We have spent a long time domesticating the Holy Spirit. Reducing it to warmth, to comfort, to the quiet feeling that settles over us in worship. And the Spirit is present in those things. But the Spirit in John 20 is something else — something that doesn’t wait, doesn’t knock, and doesn’t ask whether we feel prepared before commissioning us for work we didn’t sign up for.

As the Father has sent me, so I send you.

Not an invitation. A mandate. Delivered to people who were hiding.

What the disciples discovered — and what we keep having to rediscover — is that the locked room was never meant to be permanent. It was where the Spirit found them. Not where the Spirit intended to leave them.

The same Spirit is at work in communities like ours — in preschools where children receive their first experience of being loved and seen, in neighborhoods where the Gospel shows up with an address, in congregations that worship in two languages because they refuse to believe God’s reach stops at the edge of the majority culture.

The Spirit is already moving. The question Pentecost asks is whether we are willing to move with it — out of whatever locked room we’ve made comfortable, and into the work that is waiting.

The locked room was where the Spirit found them.

It was never where the Spirit intended to leave them.

What room are you still sitting in?

They Were Still Looking Up

Tue, 12 May 2026 13:30:25 GMT

Reflection, 7th Sunday of Easter

He was gone.

One moment he was there — speaking, breathing, present. And then a cloud took him, and he wasn't. And the disciples stood on that hillside with their necks craned back, staring at an empty sky, until two figures in white had to interrupt them.

Why are you standing here looking up?

It's a fair question. It's also the question of this Sunday.

We are in the between.

Ascension Thursday was four days ago. Pentecost is next week. Liturgically, we are living in the upper room — the place the disciples returned to after watching Jesus disappear into the sky. They came back to the city. They came back to each other. And they gathered there with the women, and with Mary his mother, and with his brothers, and they devoted themselves to prayer.

That's the whole story for today.

They didn't know what was coming. They only knew what he had told them — that the Spirit was on the way, that they would be his witnesses, that something was about to happen that they couldn't manufacture on their own. But it hadn't happened yet. And he was gone. And so they came back to the room and they waited.

Most of us are not good at waiting.

In John 17, Jesus stops talking to the disciples and starts talking to God. We are overhearing something. He is hours from the cross. He prays not for the world — he says that explicitly — but for these particular people. The ones who had been given to him. The ones who had believed.

Holy Father, protect them.

That's what he asks. Protect them. Keep them in your name. The same way you have kept me.

He is leaving, and he knows what that will cost them. He has watched them struggle to understand, to follow, to stay awake. He knows what is coming — the arrest, the scattering, the grief that doesn't have a name yet because it's too new. And so he prays: protect them.

What we sometimes forget is that this prayer didn't end at the cross. This is the ongoing work of the risen, ascended Christ — interceding for us, holding us in the name of the One who sent him. The disciples in that upper room were prayed for. And so are we.

We are not abandoned. We are held.

That is what makes the waiting bearable.

Not certainty about what comes next. Not a timetable. Not an explanation for why things are the way they are. Just this: he has not stopped praying for us. The same Jesus who looked at those particular faces and said protect them is looking at ours.

First Peter puts it plainly, almost bluntly: cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you. Not because your anxiety is small. Not because the suffering isn't real. But because there is someone to cast it onto — someone whose care for you is not conditional on how well you're holding it together.

The disciples weren't holding it together. They were staring at an empty sky. And the invitation — then and now — was to come back down the hill and return to the room.

That is what we are called to be.

People who have watched something leave that they cannot replace. People who are living in the not-yet. People who know the Spirit is coming but can't make it come on their own terms. So they return — to the room, to the prayers, to each other.

They stop looking at the sky and start tending to one another.

The waiting is not empty. Jesus is interceding. The Father is faithful. The Spirit is near.

Pentecost is coming.

But first, this. The upper room. The prayer. The willingness to be in the not-yet without pretending it's already the after.

Come back to the room.

Wait together.

The Spirit is on the way.

Faith In Everyday Life: Pentecost and the gift of not knowing

Mon, 11 May 2026 13:10:33 GMT

Pentecost and the Gift of Not Knowing

The Spirit shows up like wind and fire — and nobody asked for that.

Read the second chapter of Acts carefully and you will notice something the Sunday school version tends to smooth over: the disciples were not ready. They were not in the middle of a prayer meeting, expectantly waiting for the Spirit to descend. They were hiding. Gathered behind locked doors, fifty days after the resurrection, still not entirely sure what had happened or what was supposed to happen next.

And into that uncertainty — into that room full of people who did not know what they were doing — the Spirit arrived like a rushing wind and divided tongues of flame and a sound that brought the whole neighborhood running.

Nobody had a plan for that.

The Spirit did not wait for the disciples to have a plan. It arrived into their uncertainty and set it on fire.

This is the first and most important thing Pentecost teaches us: the Spirit does not wait for us to be ready. It does not require our certainty as a precondition for its arrival. It moves where it will — through locked rooms and open windows, through prepared souls and unprepared ones, through the people who have everything figured out and, perhaps especially, through the people who do not.

Which is, on most days, most of us.

The Trouble with Certainty

We live in a world that rewards certainty. Confidence is currency. The person who sounds like they know exactly what they are doing commands more attention than the person who is genuinely, humbly searching. We perform certainty even when we do not feel it — in our careers, in our relationships, sometimes even in our faith.

The church has not always been innocent of this. There have been centuries when theological certainty was enforced rather than invited, when doubt was treated as failure rather than as the beginning of honest faith. We have sometimes presented Christianity as a system of settled answers rather than a life of deepening questions.

Pentecost pushes back against all of that.

The Spirit, in Scripture, is almost never described as settling things. It unsettles them.

It unsettles the comfortable. It disrupts the expected. It gives voice to the voiceless — on that first Pentecost, people heard the gospel in their own languages, languages the disciples had no business speaking. It crosses every boundary we have carefully maintained. It shows up in places we would not have chosen and through people we would not have predicted.

The Spirit is, to borrow a phrase from C.S. Lewis about Aslan, not a tame lion. It cannot be managed, scheduled, or contained within the structures we have built to contain it — not even the very good structures, not even the liturgical ones.

What Not Knowing Opens

There is a spiritual tradition — found in the Christian mystics, in Ignatian spirituality, in the contemplative stream that runs through our own Anglican heritage — that speaks of the via negativa: the way of not-knowing. The understanding that God is always larger than our concepts of God. That every image, every name, every theological formula points toward the holy but does not exhaust it.

This is not agnosticism. It is not the giving up of belief. It is the giving up of the idol of certainty — the insistence that God must fit within the boundaries of what we have already understood.

What opens when we release that insistence is something the mystics called disponibilité — a French word meaning availability, openness, the willingness to be surprised. It is the posture of the disciples in that upper room, frightened and uncertain and, despite themselves, available.

The Spirit filled the available space.

It still does.

Every rigid certainty is a door we have closed. Not-knowing is not the absence of faith — it is the posture that keeps the doors open for what God might do next.

Think about the moments in your own life when God has felt most alive, most present, most undeniable. My guess — and it is a pastoral guess born from years of these conversations — is that most of those moments came not when you had everything figured out, but when something had just fallen apart. When the plan had failed. When the certainty had crumbled and you were left, unexpectedly, with open hands.

That is Pentecost weather. That is when the wind moves.

Living Pentecost Every Day

Pentecost is not only a Sunday in late May. It inaugurates the longest season of the liturgical year — what we call Ordinary Time, the great green stretch of Sundays between Pentecost and Advent. All those weeks in green vestments, all those Sundays of ordinary life, are meant to be lived in Pentecost light. In the awareness that the Spirit is still moving. Still arriving uninvited into locked rooms. Still setting fire to things we thought were settled.

What does that look like on a Wednesday?

It looks like holding your plans loosely enough that God can interrupt them. It looks like paying attention to the unexpected — the conversation that opens a door you did not know was there, the stranger who says something that stops you cold, the moment of beauty or grief or clarity that arrives without warning and insists on being received.

It looks like asking, regularly and genuinely: Spirit, where are you moving right now? And then — this is the harder part — being willing to follow the answer even when it leads somewhere inconvenient.

The disciples did not stay in the upper room after Pentecost. They could not. The fire had made staying impossible.

That is the gift and the disruption of the Spirit, arriving together in the same flame. You are changed. You are sent. You do not get to go back to not knowing what you now know.

But you also — and this is the grace at the center of it all — you also do not have to go alone.

The same Spirit that arrived in wind and fire in Jerusalem is present here, in Coral Springs, on an ordinary Sunday in May.

Still moving.

Still arriving uninvited.

Still making room for what none of us could have planned.

For Reflection This Week

Where in your life is the Spirit asking you to let go of control — of a plan, an outcome, a certainty you have been holding tightly? You don't have to release it all at once. Just notice where the grip is tightest. And ask, with whatever faith you have: Spirit, what are you doing here? Then stay open long enough to find out.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Also in this series: Advent Is Not Christmas Prep · Lent for People Who Hate Lent

The church begins its year in darkness and waiting — on purpose. And Lent is not about chocolate. Series IV continues with the two seasons that most stubbornly refuse to be domesticated.

The Orphan Fear

Mon, 04 May 2026 13:14:07 GMT

Relfection for 6th Sunday of Easter

Last Friday, a fifteen-year-old girl disappeared.

She belongs to a Spanish-speaking family in our diocese. She was there, and then she wasn't. And somewhere right now, a mother is sitting by a phone that isn't ringing, praying to a God who isn't answering — at least not in any way she can hear.

I keep thinking about that mother.

Jesus says, in John's gospel, I will not leave you orphaned. The disciples aren't orphans. They have families, communities, lives. But Jesus uses that word anyway — because he's naming a specific fear, not a circumstance. Not just loss. The specific fear of being left.

That mother knows it now.

And if we're honest, most of us know some version of it too. The prayer that went up and seemed to go nowhere. The long season when God felt less like a presence and more like a rumor. The orphan fear doesn't require a missing child to find us.

Paul tells the Athenians that God is not far from any of us — that in God we live and move and have our being. But he's not offering comfort. He's making a theological claim: God is not an idea we reach toward. God is the ground we already stand on, whether we know it or not. That's the hard part. Not whether God is present. Whether we can trust it when we feel nothing.

The Psalmist doesn't pretend the hard places weren't hard. You laid burdens on our backs. We went through fire and water. And then — not instead of that, but after it — you brought us to a place of refreshment. The promise doesn't erase the fire. It just refuses to let the fire be the end.

Jesus promises the Advocate — the Spirit who will be in us, not merely alongside us. This is not a presence we earn or sustain by our own effort. It is already there — in the places we haven't looked, in the grief we haven't named.

I don't know what that means for a mother waiting by a silent phone.

I'm not sure I know what it means for me on my worst days either.

But I keep returning to the word Jesus chose. Orphaned. He didn't say lost or struggling or far from God. He named the fear exactly — and then he spoke directly into it. I will not leave you that way.

Whether that promise is being kept right now, in a grief I cannot reach or fix — I hold that as an act of faith, not certainty. Some weeks, that's all I have.

Pray for the girl. Pray for her family. And if you're carrying your own version of the orphan fear this week, know that you are not alone in it.

Faith in Everyday Life: What does the church owe the neighborhood

Mon, 04 May 2026 12:32:35 GMT

What Does the Church Owe the Neighboorhood?

Most churches own more than they think.

There is the building, of course — the nave, the classrooms, the parish hall, the preschool wing. There is the parking lot, the landscaping, the sign out front. But there is something else, harder to put on a balance sheet: the trust the neighborhood has placed in the institution that has stood on this corner, in this community, for decades.

That trust is not automatic. It is not earned simply by existing. And it can be lost — quietly, slowly — when a congregation turns inward and forgets that the building faces the street for a reason.

The building faces the street for a reason. A church that exists only for the people inside it has forgotten what it is for.

The question I want to sit with in this final article of Series III is not a comfortable one: what does the church owe the neighborhood? Not what can we offer, as a kind of optional generosity. What do we owe — as a matter of vocation, of faithfulness, of being the Body of Christ in a particular place?

Because I think the answer is more than most of us have been willing to reckon with.

We Are Not Here by Accident

Sts. MM&M sits at 1400 Riverside Drive in Coral Springs. That address is not incidental. The neighborhood around us — its demographics, its needs, its history, its struggles — is not background. It is our mission field. It is the specific place God has put us, in this moment, to be the church.

The prophet Jeremiah wrote to the Israelites in Babylon — exiles, far from home, living under an empire that had conquered them — and told them something unexpected: seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare (Jeremiah 29:7).

Seek the welfare of the city. Not just your own community within the city. The city itself. The neighborhood. The people who will never set foot in your building. Their flourishing is bound up with yours.

That is not a suggestion for the especially devout. It is a word to the whole community in exile — which is, in some sense, what the church has always been.

We are always, in some sense, a community living within a larger world that does not share our values. And Jeremiah's counsel to that community is: do not withdraw. Do not build walls. Do not wait for conditions to improve before you engage. Seek the welfare of the place you have been given. Pray for it. Work for it. Because your life is bound up with it.

The Question of Presence

There is a difference between a church that serves the neighborhood and a church that is present to the neighborhood. Service is important — feeding programs, after-school tutoring, emergency assistance funds, partnerships with local nonprofits. We do some of this, and we can do more. But presence is something deeper.

Presence means that the people who live on Riverside Drive know we are here — not because they have driven past our sign, but because they have encountered us. In the school board meeting. At the neighborhood association. At the memorial after a local tragedy. At the table where decisions are being made about who gets resources and who does not.

Presence means we know their names. We know what keeps them up at night. We know which families are food insecure, which teenagers have nowhere safe to go after school, which elderly neighbors haven't spoken to anyone in three days.

There is a difference between a church that serves the neighborhood and a church that is present to it. Service asks: what can we give? Presence asks: who are you?

Service asks: what can we give? Presence asks: who are you?

Both matter. But the second one is harder — and it is the one that actually builds the trust that makes everything else possible.

What We Have and What It Is For

We have a building. That building has rooms, a kitchen, a parking lot, and a preschool that serves families who may never attend a Sunday service. Already, in that preschool, we are doing neighborhood ministry — forming children, supporting families, being a presence of stability and care in the early years that matter most.

That is not nothing. It is a great deal. And it is a model for the question we keep asking: what else do we have, and what is it for?

We have a congregation of people with skills, relationships, vocations, and spheres of influence that extend far beyond this building. A nurse. A teacher. A lawyer. A small business owner. A retired social worker. A bilingual family that bridges two communities. Every person in our pews is already embedded in the neighborhood in some way — already has access, trust, and knowledge that the institution alone never could.

The church's job is not to run every ministry itself. The church's job is to form people who carry the mission into every corner of the neighborhood they already inhabit. To equip the saints, as Paul wrote, for the work of ministry — not just inside the building, but everywhere they go.

Starting Where You Are

The scale of neighborhood need can be paralyzing. The problems are large, the resources are finite, and it is easy to feel that nothing a small congregation does will make a dent in something so vast.

But that is not the question. The question is not: can we fix the neighborhood? The question is: are we faithful to the place we have been given?

Faithfulness looks like showing up. Consistently. Without requiring the neighborhood to come to us first. It looks like asking — genuinely, humbly asking — what do you need, and how can we help? And then listening long enough to actually hear the answer, rather than assuming we already know. It looks like one family from our congregation mentoring one student from a local school. One relationship. One conversation. One act of presence that says: you matter to us, not because you might become a member, but because you are our neighbor and we have made promises about how we treat our neighbors.

Small things, done faithfully, over time, are how neighborhoods change. They are also how congregations are transformed — from communities that meet on Sundays into communities that live their faith on every day of the week.

Faithfulness is not fixing the neighborhood. It is showing up — consistently, humbly, without requiring the neighborhood to come to us first.

The Debt We Owe

So what does the church owe the neighborhood?

We owe it our presence — genuine, sustained, humble presence that does not withdraw when things get hard or complicated.

We owe it our honesty — the willingness to name injustice when we see it, to advocate for those who have no one advocating for them, to not look away because looking costs us something.

We owe it our hospitality — open doors, a building that serves more than its members, a community that makes room for the stranger rather than waiting to be sought out.

We owe it our prayers — not as a substitute for action, but as the source of it. We pray for this neighborhood. We call it by name before God. We hold its people in the same light we hold our own.

And we owe it our best selves — not the version of the church that is comfortable and self-referential and primarily concerned with its own survival, but the version that remembers it exists for the sake of the world.

That version of the church is harder to be.

It is also the only version worth being.

For Reflection This Week

Name one neighbor, organization, or need within a mile of our building that our congregation could show up for. Not a program — just a relationship. One family. One school. One organization doing good work that we could stand alongside. Bring that name to prayer this week, and see where it leads.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Coming up next — Series IV: Seasons of the Soul

The church begins its year in darkness and waiting — on purpose. In our final series, we explore the liturgical calendar as a map of the soul, starting with the season that refuses to let us rush toward the light.

What Standing Up Means

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 13:18:13 GMT

Reflection for the 5th Sunday of Easter

There's a gesture most of us have experienced at least once.

You walk into a room where someone is already seated. And they see you — really see you — and they rise. Not because protocol requires it. They stand up because you arrived. Because your presence is worth the getting up.

It doesn't happen often. That's why you remember it when it does.

I've been thinking about a detail buried in the Book of Acts that most people read right past.

Stephen — one of the early church's first leaders — has been dragged before the council in Jerusalem. He has told them the truth, which is never the safe thing to do. And now they are done listening. They cover their ears. They rush at him. They take him outside the city.

Before any of that happens, Luke tells us that Stephen looks up. He sees the heavens opened. He sees Jesus standing at the right hand of God.

Standing.

Every other place in the New Testament where the risen Christ appears — in visions, in proclamations, in the book of Revelation — he is seated. Enthroned. At rest. The work is finished. Here, he is on his feet.

Some scholars read that as a legal posture — Jesus rising as a witness on Stephen's behalf. Maybe. But I keep thinking about something simpler. I keep thinking about what it means when someone stands up for you. Not metaphorically. Literally. Because you matter enough to interrupt what they were doing. Because they want you to know, before a word is spoken, that you are not alone here.

Stephen is about to die. He knows it. The stones are already in people's hands. And he looks up, and someone is standing. That is a claim about the nature of God — that whatever awaits us on the other side of the hardest moment, we do not walk into it unreceived. We are seen. And someone rises.

I don't know what you're carrying this week. I don't know what room you are about to have to walk into, or what you are afraid of finding there, or what it has already cost you to keep showing up. But I believe this.

You are not walking in alone. And somewhere, somehow — something rises to meet you.

Faith in Everyday Life: The Eucharist Table is Political

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 12:51:11 GMT

The Eucharist Table is Political

Jesus was killed, in part, because of who he ate with.

That is not a metaphor. The table fellowship of Jesus — the repeated, scandalous, deliberate act of sharing meals with tax collectors, sinners, Samaritans, women of questionable reputation, people the religious establishment had written off as unclean — was one of the central provocations of his ministry. It infuriated the people in power. And it got him killed.

So when we gather around the Eucharist table every Sunday and call it the Lord's Supper, we are not re-enacting a private spiritual ritual. We are continuing a practice that was, from its very beginning, a political act.

Jesus was killed, in part, because of who he ate with. When we gather at the Eucharist table, we are continuing a practice that was, from its very beginning, a political act.

I do not mean political in the partisan sense. I mean political in the deepest sense — concerned with the ordering of human community, with who is in and who is out, with who has power and who does not, with what kind of world we are building together.

The table has always been political in that sense. Every table is.

Tables Have Always Been About Power

In the ancient world, the question of who ate with whom was a question of social order. You ate with your equals. You did not cross the lines of class, ethnicity, gender, or religious purity at the table — not without making a statement. The table was a map of the social world, and every seating arrangement confirmed who mattered and who did not.

Jesus dismantled that map every chance he got.

He ate with Zacchaeus, the despised tax collector, in his own home. He let a woman known as a sinner wash his feet at a Pharisee's dinner party. He sat down at a well in Samaria — crossing every boundary of gender, ethnicity, and religious propriety — and had a theological conversation with a woman the world had discarded. He fed five thousand people on a hillside and made sure everyone ate.

Every one of these meals was a sermon. And the sermon was always the same: at this table, the world's rules about who belongs do not apply.

The Last Supper was not the beginning of this pattern. It was its culmination — the night before his death, Jesus gathered the people he loved, including the one who would betray him, and broke bread with all of them. He did not purify the table before he sat down at it. He sat down at it as it was, with all its mess and failure and betrayal, and called it holy.

What the Eucharist Is Saying

When we celebrate the Eucharist at Sts. MM&M, we are making a series of claims that are, by the standards of the world, quite radical.

We are claiming that this table belongs to Christ, not to us — which means we do not get to decide who is welcome at it. That decision has already been made, and the answer is everyone. The Episcopal Church's invitation to the table is among the most open in Christendom: all baptized persons are welcome, and in many of our communities, including ours, the table is open to all who seek God, whatever their tradition.

We are claiming that what happens here — the breaking of bread, the sharing of the cup, the words this is my body, this is my blood — creates a community that does not exist anywhere else. A community where the banker and the janitor receive the same bread. Where the citizen and the undocumented immigrant kneel at the same rail. Where the person who voted differently than you did extends their hands alongside yours and receives the same grace.

At this table, the banker and the janitor receive the same bread. The citizen and the immigrant kneel at the same rail. The grace is the same for all of them. That is not nothing. In this world, that is everything.

That is not nothing. In this world, that is everything.

And it is a direct challenge to every system, every ideology, every social arrangement that says some people matter more than others. The Eucharist does not just comfort us. It confronts us. It confronts us with a vision of human community that we are called to carry out of this building and into the world.

The Hardest Part

There is a reason I called this article what I did. The Eucharist table is political — and that means it will make us uncomfortable. Not in the partisan sense, but in the personal one.

Because the table does not just ask us to welcome the people we find easy to welcome. It asks us to sit beside the people we would rather not sit beside. To share bread with the person whose behavior has hurt us, whose views have angered us, whose life looks nothing like ours.

That is the practice the table is asking of us. Not agreement. Not the erasure of difference. But the willingness to be in the same community, to share the same food, to acknowledge that we are all — every one of us — dependent on the same grace.

Worth asking yourself as you come forward this Sunday: who do you find hardest to imagine at this table beside you? Sit with that name. Sit with that face.

Because Christ is already there, already breaking bread, already making room.

The only question is whether we will pull up a chair.

Taking the Table with You

The dismissal at the end of our liturgy — "Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord" — is not a gentle suggestion. It is a sending. We are being sent from this table back into a world that is hungry. Hungry for justice. Hungry for dignity. Hungry for the kind of community where everyone actually belongs.

We have just practiced that community for an hour. We have sat beside people we might not choose. We have shared bread we did not earn. We have been reminded, again, that grace is not scarce and the table is not small.

Now we go.

We go and we set other tables — in our homes, in our workplaces, in our neighborhoods — where the same spirit governs. Where the outsider is welcomed. Where the hungry are fed. Where no one is turned away because they are the wrong kind of person.

We do not build the kingdom alone. But we have been shown, every Sunday, what it looks like.

That is enough to go on.

For Reflection This Week

Who do you find hardest to welcome to the table — literally or figuratively? This week, notice one moment when you have the chance to extend welcome to someone it costs you something to include. You don't have to resolve the difficulty. Just notice it, and choose to make room anyway.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Next in this series: What Does the Church Owe the Neighborhood?

Our building sits on land that tells a story. So does our ZIP code. In our final article of Series III, we ask what it means to be the church not just for our congregation, but for the neighborhood that surrounds us.

This Sunday Isn't the Sermon You Think It Is

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 15:14:34 GMT

Not the Shepherd

Every year on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, the lectionary hands us the same gift — and we open it the same way. Green pastures. Still waters. Jesus the gentle shepherd, leading his flock. It's Good Shepherd Sunday, and we know exactly what to expect. Except this year I kept reading.

Here's what John 10 actually says. Jesus does not call himself the shepherd in this passage. He calls himself the gate. "I am the gate for the sheep." Verse seven. And then again in verse nine, in case we missed it: "I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved." The Good Shepherd is in John 10 — but not yet. We're not there. What we have this Sunday is something different, and something worth sitting with.

A gate is a threshold. It's not a destination, not a shelter, not a resting place. It's the thing you pass through to get somewhere. And what Jesus says you enter into — what's waiting on the other side — is this: abundant life.

Not uncomplicated life. Not safe life. Abundant life.

Which raises the question Psalm 23 answers in a line we tend to read past at funerals: "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies." Not after the enemies are gone. Not in a protected enclosure where nothing can reach you. In their presence. The table is set in contested territory. The cup overflows anyway. The feast happens anyway. That's what the gate opens onto. Not escape. Not ease. A table, already set, with your name on it — right in the middle of whatever is pressing in on you. This Sunday we're going to look at what that actually means. What it looks like to pass through the gate and find, not safety, but something more durable than safety.

I hope you'll join us.

Grace and Peace,

Lee+

Faith In Everyday Life: Baptismal Covenant as a Civic Document

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 15:04:11 GMT

Baptismal Covenant as a Civic Document

We make promises at the font that we spend the rest of our lives learning to keep.

The Baptismal Covenant — those five questions asked at every baptism in the Episcopal Church, answered by the whole congregation — is the most demanding document most of us have ever agreed to. More demanding than any job description. More sweeping than any civic oath. And we say yes to it so regularly, at so many baptisms over the years, that it is easy to let the words blur into liturgical wallpaper.

They should not blur. Every one of them has teeth.

The Baptismal Covenant is the most demanding document most of us have ever agreed to — and we say yes to it so regularly it has become easy to miss what we are actually promising.

The first two questions affirm our belief — the Apostles' Creed in question form. But it is the final three where the covenant turns outward, into the world, into the neighborhood, into the hard work of being the Body of Christ in a broken place. Those are the ones I want to sit with today. Because those three questions are not private spiritual commitments. They are civic ones. They describe a way of living in community — with each other, with our neighbors, with the stranger, with the earth — that is nothing less than a political vision. Not partisan. But political, in the deepest sense: concerned with the ordering of our common life.

The Three Outward Vows

"Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?"

I will, with God's help.

This is not only about evangelism in the traditional sense. It is a promise to let the way we live be a proclamation. Every act of justice, every moment of compassion, every time we refuse to go along with cruelty because it is convenient — that is proclamation. Our lives are the text the world reads.

"Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?"

I will, with God's help.

All persons. Not the ones who look like us. Not the ones who agree with us. Not the ones who are easy to love. All persons — which includes the undocumented immigrant, the unhoused neighbor, the person whose politics make us grind our teeth. Christ is present in them. We have promised to seek him there.

"Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?"

I will, with God's help.

Strive. Not achieve — strive. The vow acknowledges that justice is not something we finish. It is something we keep working toward, keep being interrupted by, keep being called back to when we would rather rest. And dignity — every human being. That word every is doing enormous work. It leaves no one out.

Three vows. Each one a promise about how we will treat other people — specific people, inconvenient people, people the world has decided do not matter.

That is a civic vision. It describes the kind of community we are committed to building, not just inside these walls but outside them.

With God's Help

Notice what we do not say. We do not say simply "I will." We say "I will, with God's help."

That qualification is not a hedge. It is a confession of realism. These vows are impossible to keep on our own. Not difficult — impossible. Loving all persons? Striving for justice among all people? Respecting the dignity of every human being, including the ones who have forfeited our goodwill, including the ones in power who abuse it, including the ones so broken by the world that their humanity is buried under behavior we find threatening or repellent?

We cannot do this alone. The phrase "with God's help" is not a caveat. It is the source. We are not promising to be good enough. We are promising to keep showing up to the work — and to keep returning to the One who makes the work possible.

The covenant is not a performance standard. It is a direction of travel.

We are not promising to be good enough. We are promising to keep showing up to the work — and to keep returning to the One who makes it possible.

What This Demands Right Now

I will not pretend neutrality here — and the covenant does not give us permission to.

When we promise to respect the dignity of every human being, that promise is not suspended during election cycles. It does not go quiet when dignity is under legislative assault. It does not allow us to look away when the people targeted are the poor, the immigrant, the LGBTQ+ teenager, the person of color navigating systems designed to diminish them.

The Baptismal Covenant does not tell us which party to vote for. But it does tell us what to care about. It tells us that every human being carries the image of God — the imago Dei — and that treating any person as less than that is a violation of what we promised at the font.

That is not politics. That is baptism.

And baptism has consequences.

The Congregation Said Yes Too

Here is the thing that moves me most about the Baptismal Covenant: we do not make these promises alone. Every baptism is a congregational act. When we ask those five questions, the whole assembly answers. We promise together.

Which means that when a child is baptized at Sts. MM&M — when that baby is held over the font and the water is poured — every person in that nave is renewing their own baptismal vow. We are re-committing, together, to seek Christ in all persons. To strive for justice. To respect every human being's dignity.

We are not spectators at a baptism. We are co-signers.

So the next time we gather at the font — or the next time you see those five questions in the bulletin — read them slowly. Feel the weight of what you are about to say.

And then say it.

Mean it.

And walk out of this building ready to keep it.

With God's help.

For Reflection This Week

Which of the three outward vows feels most challenging to live right now — proclaiming the Good News by how you live, seeking Christ in all persons, or striving for the dignity of every human being? Sit with the one that costs you something. What would keeping that vow look like this week, in one specific situation?

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Next in this series: The Eucharist Table Is Political

A table where everyone is welcome is a radical act in a divided world. We explore what the Eucharist is actually saying about who belongs — and what it demands of the communities that gather around it.

Faith in Everyday Life: The Collect: A Prayer That Teaches You How to Pray

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 13:59:48 GMT

Teaching you How to Pray

Every Sunday, tucked between the Gloria and the readings, we pray a collect. One paragraph. Thirty seconds. Easy to slide past without noticing.

Which would be a shame — because inside that one paragraph is one of the most elegant things the Christian tradition ever built. A structure so carefully designed that it has been teaching people how to pray for over a thousand years. And most of us have been using it every week without knowing it was a lesson.

Inside that one paragraph is a structure so carefully designed it has been teaching people how to pray for over a thousand years.

The word collect — pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, COL-lect — comes from the Latin collecta, meaning a gathering. It is the prayer that collects the intentions of the congregation and brings them before God at the opening of the liturgy. One voice, speaking for all. Brief, precise, complete.

What makes it remarkable is not just what it says. It is how it is built.

The Five-Part Architecture

Every collect in the Book of Common Prayer follows the same ancient structure — five moves, in sequence, like a complete thought that knows exactly where it is going. Once you see it, you cannot unsee it. And once you understand it, you have a framework for prayer that works anywhere — in the pew, in the car, in the middle of a hard day when you have no idea what to say to God.

Here is the structure, using the Collect for Purity — the one we pray at the opening of the Eucharist — as an example:

The Five Moves of a Collect

1. Address "Almighty God..." — We name who we are speaking to. Not generically, but specifically — drawing on a particular attribute of God that is relevant to what we are about to ask.

2. Acknowledgment "...to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid..." — We acknowledge something true about God. This is not flattery. It is theology. We are grounding the prayer in what we actually believe.

3. Petition "Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit..." — Now we ask. The petition flows naturally from the acknowledgment — because we have named who God is, the ask makes sense.

4. Purpose "...that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name..." — We name why we are asking. Not for our own benefit alone, but toward a larger purpose. What will this gift make possible?

5. Pleading "...through Christ our Lord. Amen." — We close by naming the ground on which we stand. Not our own merit, but Christ's. This is the doxological anchor of every collect.

Five moves. One paragraph. A complete act of prayer.

Notice what the structure does: it will not let you rush. You have to name who God is before you ask for anything. You have to say why you want what you want. You have to end somewhere beyond yourself. The form is not a constraint — it is a discipline that shapes the prayer into something more than a wish list.

What It Teaches Us About Prayer

Most of us, left to our own devices, pray in one of two modes: the emergency request (God, please fix this) or the guilty apology (God, I know I haven't talked to you in a while, but...). Both are real. Both are valid. God receives them.

But neither one teaches us much about who God is or who we are in relation to God. They treat prayer as a transaction — something you do when you need something or when you feel bad enough to check in.

The collect structure does something different. It begins with God, not with us. It asks us to think — even briefly, even in one clause — about who we are addressing before we say what we want. That small discipline, practiced week after week, does something to a person. It slowly reorients prayer away from the self and toward the One we are actually speaking to.

Prayer is not a monologue. It is a conversation with Someone — and the collect teaches us to begin by remembering who that Someone is.

Prayer is not a monologue. The collect teaches us to begin by remembering who we are actually speaking to.

The purpose clause is equally transformative. When I am forced to ask not just for what I want but for why I want it — what larger good this request serves, what it will make possible — I sometimes discover that what I thought I needed is not quite what I actually need. The form slows me down enough to find out.

Try Writing Your Own

Here is where this becomes practical. The collect structure is not the exclusive property of Thomas Cranmer or the sixteenth century. It is a living form — and it works just as well for a Tuesday morning as it does for a Sunday liturgy.

Take a situation you are carrying right now. Something you want to bring to God — a decision, a relationship, a fear, a hope. And try building a collect around it. Five moves. One paragraph.

Start with a name for God that is relevant to your situation. If you are afraid, maybe it is "God of all comfort." If you are facing a decision, maybe it is "God of wisdom and discernment." If you are exhausted, maybe it is "God who gives rest to the weary."

Then acknowledge something true about that God — not to flatter, but to ground yourself in what you believe. Then ask. Then say why. Then close in Christ.

The first time you try it, it will feel awkward. That is fine. The awkwardness is the form doing its work — asking you to be more intentional than you are used to being.

What you may find, after a few tries, is what generations of Christians have found before you: that the structure holds you when you don't know what to say. That naming who God is, before you say what you need, changes the quality of the asking. That prayer — even private, stumbling, imperfect prayer — can be something more than a wish list.

It can be an encounter.

And the collect has been pointing toward that encounter, one Sunday at a time, for longer than any of us have been alive.

A Collect for This Week

Before you go, here is one to carry with you — written in the ancient form, for the ordinary days:

God of the unhurried and the ordinary, whose Son walked dusty roads and stopped for strangers: open our eyes to your presence in the unremarkable hours of this week, that we might find you where we least expect you, and be changed by the finding; through Christ, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Amen.

Say it once. Slowly.

Then try writing one of your own.

For Reflection This Week

Choose one thing you are carrying right now and write a collect for it. Use the five-part structure: Address, Acknowledgment, Petition, Purpose, Pleading. It doesn't need to be beautiful — it just needs to be honest. If you're willing, bring it to share at your next small group or Sunday gathering.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Coming up next — Series III: Faith in the Public Square

We promise to 'seek and serve Christ in all persons' at our baptism. But what does that promise demand of us — in our neighborhoods, our politics, our daily choices? Series III begins with the most radical document in our tradition.

The Worst Thing is not the Last Thing

Sun, 05 Apr 2026 12:01:29 GMT

An Easter Sunday Relfection

Nobody who wanted to invent a religion would have invented this one.

If you were making it up — trying to build a following, start a movement, get people to believe something — you would not have the first witnesses be women. In first century Palestine, women couldn't testify in court. Their word didn't count legally. If you were fabricating a resurrection story you would have picked better witnesses.

You would not have the disciples hiding in a locked room. You would not have Thomas refusing to believe until he could touch the wounds himself. You would not write that much doubt and confusion into the founding story of your religion.

Made-up looks clean. This doesn't.

The tomb was empty. Nobody has ever been able to explain it. And everything — every single thing that follows — flows from that one inconvenient, impossible, world-altering fact.

Here is what Easter actually means. Not that life is easy now. Not that nothing bad will happen if you believe hard enough. Not that God fixes everything the way you wanted it fixed.

It means the worst thing that ever happened was not the last thing.

Death itself — public and brutal and final — turned out not to be the end of the sentence. God took the period and made it a comma. Whatever has been trying to bury you does not get to write the ending.

Death no longer has dominion.

That is the most ferocious thing anyone has ever said. And we say it every year, in churches packed with people who are carrying all kinds of things, because we keep needing to hear it.

An Easter Pastoral Message

Sat, 04 Apr 2026 21:49:49 GMT

Father Lee Davis

The tomb is empty.

I want to start there, because everything I have to say depends on it. As a fact that the first witnesses couldn't quite believe themselves — they ran to see, and even then stood there confused, struggling to take it in.

We are in our sixth week of war. As you read these words, an American service member is missing somewhere over Iran, families on multiple continents are waiting for news that may not come, and the Strait of Hormuz — a narrow channel of blue water most of us have never seen — is shaping the price of groceries, the cost of heating our homes, the anxiety that hums in the background of daily life. Here at home, we are stretched thin by division, by uncertainty, by the feeling that the ground has shifted and won't tell us where it's going.

I am not going to tell you it's going to be fine. I don't know that it is.

The Resurrection was proclaimed into a world that looked a lot like ours. Occupied territory. Political violence. People sorting themselves into factions, calculating who was with them and who was against them. Fear behind locked doors. The disciples weren't huddled in that upper room because things were going well. They were there because the world had just done its worst to the person they loved most, and they were terrified it would come for them next.

And into that room — through the locked doors, John tells us, not around them — came the Risen Christ. Not with answers to every political question. Not with a battle plan. With wounds still visible in his hands and his side. With breath. With the word peace.

The Resurrection does not ask us to look away from the suffering in Iran, in Lebanon, in the streets of our own country. It does not hand us a permission slip to stop caring about the missing, the grieving, the displaced. The risen Christ kept his wounds.

The Resurrection refuses to let death have the last word.

In a season like this one, that is everything. The powers of this world — fear and violence and the hunger to dominate — believe that death is the final argument. That if you threaten it, or deliver it, you win. Easter is the universe's answer to that claim. Easter says: you are wrong.

So we hold on. We hold on to each other. We hold on to the one who came through locked doors and breathed peace into terrified people and sent them out — not because the world was safe, but because they were not alone.

And we are still here. Still gathering. Still breaking bread and saying each other's names and showing up for the people the world would rather forget. That is not a small thing. In the face of everything trying to grind us down, it is an act of defiance. It is Easter lived out loud.

The tomb is empty. They couldn't stop it then. They cannot stop it now.

A Blessed and Holy Eastertide to you and to all you love —

Fr. Lee+

A Good Friday Reflection

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 15:29:06 GMT

He could have come down...

Every voice in the Good Friday story is some version of the same demand.

Come down. Stop this. Prove who you are and get off that cross.

Pilate negotiating. The soldiers mocking. The crowd choosing Barabbas. All of it, underneath, is the same thing: if you're really who you say you are, make this stop.

He doesn't.

And I think that is the thing Good Friday is actually asking us to sit with. Not the brutality of what happened — though it was brutal. Not the theology of atonement, as important as that is. But this: he stayed. Every moment on that cross was a choice. He was not trapped there. He was staying there.

There's a word John uses at the end. Jesus says he is thirsty. They lift a sponge to his lips. And when he receives it, he says — in Greek — tetelestai.

It was a word used when a debt had been fully paid. When a craftsman finished a piece of work exactly as intended. When something that was supposed to happen had happened, completely, nothing left undone.

It is finished.

Not defeat. Not resignation. The word of someone who went all the way through and didn't leave.

Good Friday is not a night for tidy answers. If you are carrying something right now that you cannot get off — grief, illness, loss, the slow collapse of something you loved — this night doesn't promise you rescue.

What it offers is something harder to explain and more important: a God who has been there.

In a body. All the way in. Who did not come down.

Who did not leave.

A Maundy Thursday Reflection

Tue, 31 Mar 2026 14:30:48 GMT

The Night No One Holds it Together

There's a moment in the Maundy Thursday story that I think we move past too quickly.

Before the towel. Before the basin. Before any of the things we associate with this night — John stops and makes sure you understand one thing first.

Jesus knew.

He knew exactly what was coming. He knew who was about to betray him, who was about to deny him, who was going to run. He sat at that table with full knowledge of what the next twelve hours would bring.

And then he got on his knees and washed their feet anyway.

I've been sitting with that all week. Not with what it means theologically — though it means everything theologically — but with what it just feels like as a human fact. Most of us, when we know someone is about to hurt us, we pull back. We go quiet. We protect ourselves. That's not weakness, that's just what people do.

He went lower.

Holy Week has a way of finding us where we actually are, not where we wish we were. And I think Thursday night in particular has something to say to anyone who has ever felt like they were holding things together by sheer will — anyone who has ever sat in a room full of people and felt utterly alone in whatever they were carrying.

This is not a night that asks you to have it together. The disciples didn't. Not one of them.

It is a night that asks you to come anyway. To sit at the table. To let yourself be fed in the dark before the night gets worse.

Faith in Everyday Life: Confession is not about Guilt

Mon, 30 Mar 2026 12:40:39 GMT

Confession is not about Guilt

Most of us learned confession wrong.

We learned it as a transaction — you sin, you confess, you feel bad, you're forgiven, you try harder. The point was the guilt. The guilt was the proof that you took it seriously. The more you suffered through it, the more it counted.

That is not what the Episcopal tradition teaches. And it is not, I'd argue, what Jesus had in mind. Confession, properly understood, is not about guilt. It is about freedom.

Confession, properly understood, is not about guilt. It is about freedom — the freedom of being fully known and fully loved at the same time.

I know that might sound like a reframe too far. B ut stay with me. Because the prayer book's approach to confession is one of the most quietly radical things we do — and most of us have been doing it for years without noticing what it actually is.

What We Actually Say

Every Sunday, before we come to the table, we pray the General Confession together. You know it — or you know the shape of it, even if you haven't memorized the words. We acknowledge that we have sinned against God and our neighbor, in thought and word and deed, in what we have done and what we have left undone.

That last phrase is worth pausing on. What we have left undone.

The tradition has always understood sin not only as the harmful things we actively do, but as the good we fail to do. The love we withhold. The justice we step around. The person we don't see because seeing them would cost us something. Confession in the Episcopal tradition is not just a personal moral inventory. It is an acknowledgment that we are tangled up in a world that is not yet whole — and that we are part of both the problem and the possibility.

This is not meant to crush us. It is meant to tell the truth.

And then — immediately, without condition, without requiring us to have felt bad enough or tried hard enough — the absolution is pronounced. Not offered as a possibility. Not dangled as a reward for sufficient contrition. Pronounced. Done. Received.

"Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in eternal life."

That is the whole movement. Truth told. Mercy given. Go.

The Problem with Guilt as the Point

Here is why the guilt-centered model of confession does damage: it keeps the focus on us.

If confession is primarily about feeling bad enough, then the whole enterprise is self-referential. We are measuring our own contrition, monitoring our own suffering, wondering if we've been sorry enough to qualify. The gaze stays inward. And meanwhile, the grace — which was never conditional on our feelings in the first place — waits patiently to be received.

I have sat with too many people who have carried things for decades because they couldn't forgive themselves. Not because God hadn't forgiven them — they believed, intellectually, that God had. But because they had been taught, somewhere along the way, that the guilt was the point. That laying it down felt like getting off too easy.

The gospel says: you are not the judge of whether you have suffered enough. That is not your job. Your job is to tell the truth and receive the mercy.

Your job is not to suffer enough to deserve forgiveness. Your job is to tell the truth and receive the mercy.

Guilt that leads to truth-telling and repair is healthy — it is the conscience doing its work. But guilt that loops endlessly, that becomes its own form of self-punishment, that keeps us in hiding rather than bringing us into the light — that is not repentance. That is just another kind of bondage.

The Episcopal tradition of confession is designed to break that loop.

Confession as a Daily Practice

The BCP gives us two forms: the General Confession we pray together on Sunday, and the Rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent — what some traditions call private confession — which can be done with a priest. Both are available to us. Neither is required. But both are gifts.

What I want to suggest, beyond Sunday mornings, is the practice of a brief daily examen — a nightly review of the day in the presence of God. Not a catalogue of failures designed to generate maximum guilt. Just a quiet, honest look: where did I fall short today? Where did I leave something undone that mattered? Where do I need to receive mercy so I can begin again tomorrow?

It takes five minutes. It can happen in bed before you fall asleep. And done regularly, it does something remarkable: it keeps the slate clean. You are not dragging the accumulated weight of a month of unexamined failures into Sunday's confession. You have been in conversation with God about it all along.

Something I didn't expect: this practice changed how I sleep. There is something about ending the day by telling the truth — about yourself, to God, without performance — that releases you into rest. The day is finished. The failures are named and handed over. Tomorrow is not yet here.

That is grace. Not earned. Not conditional. Just given.

What You Are Free To Put Down

If you are carrying something today — something old or something new, something you did or something done to you that you've been holding as though it were your fault — I want you to hear this:

The tradition we share was built on the conviction that mercy is not scarce. That God is not waiting for you to feel bad enough. That the absolution is not withheld until you have suffered sufficiently.

It is already yours.

The confession is not the price of the forgiveness. It is the door.

Walk through it.

Put down what you have been carrying.

Let mercy do what mercy does.

And begin again — lighter than you came.

For Reflection This Week

Try a simple examen tonight before sleep. Ask yourself two questions: Where did I fall short today — in what I did, or what I left undone? Then sit for a moment and receive this: I am forgiven. I begin again. That's the whole practice. See what it feels like to end the day that way.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Next in this series: The Collect: A Prayer That Teaches You How to Pray

Hidden inside those ancient collect prayers is a structure so elegant it can teach anyone how to pray. We unpack it — and invite you to write your own.

Sermon, Palm Sunday 2026

Mon, 30 Mar 2026 12:31:46 GMT

From the entry into Jerusalem to the Cross, everyone ran, hid or denied Jesus, everyone was broken.

Faith in Everyday Life: Morning Prayer Without a Pew

Wed, 25 Mar 2026 11:00:09 GMT

Morning Prayer without a Pew

The Daily Office was never meant to live only inside a church building.

That surprises people. We think of Morning Prayer as something that happens in a nave, with a bulletin, led by a priest — a Sunday thing, a church thing, a thing that requires the right setting and someone who knows what they're doing. But the Daily Office — Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, the ancient rhythm of praying the hours — was designed from the beginning to be carried into ordinary life. Into kitchens. Into commutes. Into the five quiet minutes before the house wakes up.

It was designed for you. Right where you are.

The Daily Office was designed from the beginning to be carried into ordinary life. It was designed for you — right where you are.

I won't pretend I always got this right: there were seasons when the busyness crowded the Office out and I told myself I'd get back to it. What I kept discovering, every time I returned, was that it wasn't waiting for me to be more spiritual or more disciplined. It was just there — the same ancient words, the same rhythm, the same unhurried invitation to begin the day with God before beginning it with everything else.

That consistency is not accidental. It is the whole point.

What the Daily Office Actually Is

The Book of Common Prayer gives us a structure for praying at set times throughout the day — a practice inherited from Jewish tradition, carried through the early church, shaped by the Benedictine monasteries of the Middle Ages, and given to the whole people of God at the Reformation. Thomas Cranmer, who compiled the first Book of Common Prayer in 1549, had one radical idea at the center of it all: that the daily prayer of the church should not be locked behind monastery walls. It belonged to everyone.

Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer are the two anchors of that rhythm. Each one follows a simple arc: an opening, a confession, psalms, a Scripture reading, a canticle — a sung or spoken response from the tradition — and prayers. The whole thing, done simply, can take fifteen minutes. Done with more time and attention, it can expand to fill an hour.

What matters is not the length. What matters is the turning — the deliberate act of orienting yourself toward God before the noise of the day sets in.

The Office doesn't require you to feel holy. It just requires you to show up.

Why Structure Is a Gift

We live in a culture that prizes spontaneity in spiritual life — the idea that authentic prayer is unscripted, free-form, welling up from the heart in the moment. And there is real value in that. I don't want to argue against it.

But I want to make a case for the other thing. For structure. For words that are not yours — words that have been prayed by millions of people across centuries — carrying you when your own words fail.

Because they will fail. There will be mornings when you have nothing. When the grief is too fresh or the exhaustion too deep or the faith too thin to generate anything on your own. Those are exactly the mornings when having a form to step into is not a crutch. It is a mercy.

The psalms especially carry this gift. The prayer book assigns psalms in a rotating cycle — which means that whether you feel like praising God or arguing with God or weeping at God or going silent, there is a psalm for that. The full range of human emotion is already in the text. You don't have to manufacture a feeling. You just have to read the words and let them find you.

Psalm 63 on a morning when your soul is dry: "O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you." You may not feel that thirst yet. But praying the words begins to create what it describes.

That is what liturgical prayer does. It forms us, slowly, in the shape of the words we pray.

How to Begin

If you have never prayed the Daily Office, I want to make this as simple as possible. You do not need a Book of Common Prayer in hand, though having one is a gift worth acquiring. There are apps — Mission St. Clare, the Daily Office app, the Forward Movement site — that will give you the full Office for any day of the year, on your phone, for free.

Here is what I suggest for a first week:

Find three minutes before the day starts. Before the phone. Before the news. Before the coffee, if you can manage it — or with the coffee, if you can't.

Open the app. Read the opening sentences. Pray the confession. Read the psalm assigned for the day. Read one of the Scripture passages. Then use the closing prayers, or simply sit in silence for a moment before you say amen.

That's it. Three to five minutes. The same structure, the same rhythm, every morning.

You will not feel transformed after day one. But keep going. The Office works the way water works — not by force, but by persistence. It shapes you by returning, and returning, and returning again.

The Office works the way water works — not by force, but by persistence. It shapes you by returning, and returning, and returning again.

You Are Not Praying Alone

Here is the thing about the Daily Office that undoes me every time I remember it: when you pray Morning Prayer, you are not praying alone.

Right now, at this moment, Episcopalians and Anglicans and Christians from dozens of traditions around the world are praying the same psalms, reading the same Scripture, following the same rhythm you are. The Office connects you — across time zones, across denominations, across centuries — to a vast communion of prayer that began long before you and will continue long after.

You are praying with monks in monasteries and laypeople in apartments and priests in hospital chapels and teenagers at camp and elderly women in assisted living and people whose names you will never know, in languages you do not speak, who are reaching toward the same God with the same ancient words.

In a world that specializes in making us feel isolated and small and alone with our fears, that is everything. So tomorrow morning — before the noise starts, before the phone pulls you under, before the day makes its first demand — open the Office.

Say the words.

Let two thousand years of prayer hold you for five minutes. And then go — carried a little differently than you came.

For Reflection This Week

Try Morning Prayer for three days this week using a free resource like Mission St. Clare (missionstclare.com) or the Daily Office app. You don't need to do it perfectly — just show up, read the words, and notice what happens. Three days. That's all.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Next in this series: Confession Is Not About Guilt

What if confessing our failures was actually an act of freedom? We explore the Episcopal understanding of reconciliation — and why it has nothing to do with shame.

Broken

Tue, 24 Mar 2026 13:00:07 GMT

A Reflection on Palm Sunday

Something happens on Palm Sunday that happens on no other day in the Christian year.

We walk in waving branches. We shout Hosanna. And then — in the same service — we read the Passion. The betrayal, the garden, the cross. We hold the parade and the death in the same hour, in the same hands.

The church does not do this by accident. It will not let us skip to Easter. It insists we carry the whole thing.

I have been sitting with this week's texts for a while now, and the word that keeps finding me is one I didn't go looking for.

Broken .

Not in some soft, therapeutic sense. In the way the Psalms mean it. In the way the Passion narrative means it. In the way that some of you — I suspect most of you — know it from the inside.

This Story Was Written for You

The readings for Palm Sunday are not for people who have it together. They are not an invitation to admire Jesus from a safe distance. They pull you in. They ask where you are in the story. And the honest answer, for most of us, is: closer to the disciples than we'd like to admit. Tired. Afraid. Trying. Falling short.

Palm Sunday has something to say about that. About what God does with broken things. About where God actually shows up — and it is not where most of us would have guessed.

Don't Skip This Week

I want to ask something of you this year.

Come for the whole week.

Not just Sunday. Come Thursday night and let Jesus wash your feet — and sit with what that costs him, knowing what he knows. Come Friday and sit in the silence after. Come Saturday night and stand in the dark and wait for the fire.

There is something that happens when you stay with Holy Week all the way through that does not happen when you jump from palms straight to Easter lilies. The resurrection means something different — something realer — when you've let yourself stand in the dark first.

Easter will mean what it's supposed to mean. But not if we skip what comes before it.

I'll be preaching Sunday on what these texts have to say to those of us who are carrying something heavy into this week. And I suspect that's most of us.

Come broken. Come tired. Come not sure what you believe right now. That's not an obstacle.

That has always been who is welcome here.

Faith In Everyday Life: Why we light candles

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 12:44:03 GMT

Why we Light Candles

Before we had electricity, we had fire. And before we had fire in churches, we had darkness — and the decision to push back against it.

That decision is still being made every Sunday at Sts. MM&M. Someone lights the candles on the altar before the service begins. It's one of those things that happens quietly, without announcement, while people are still finding their seats and catching up in the narthex. Most of us barely notice.

But we would notice if it stopped.

There is something in us — something old and persistent — that responds to flame. That knows, before the mind can explain it, that a candle lit in a dark room is not just a light source. It is a statement.

A candle lit in a dark room is not just a light source. It is a statement — and the church has been making it for two thousand years.

I've been watching people light candles in our nave for years now. The careful way a child holds the taper at the Easter Vigil, nervous and proud. The quiet moment when someone lights a votive at the prayer station, sets it down, and just stands there for a second before walking away. The acolyte who takes the job seriously, who straightens the candlesticks without being asked.

Every one of them is participating in something far older than our building. Far older than our denomination. Far older, even, than Christianity itself.

And I think most of them know it — even if they couldn't say exactly why.

Light as Theology

The Gospel of John opens in the dark. Not with a manger or an angel — with the deep, formless dark before creation, and then these words: "In him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it" (John 1:4-5).

John is not being poetic for its own sake. He is making a claim: that the coming of Jesus into the world was like light entering darkness. Not overpowering it with force. Not dissolving it with an explanation. Just — shining. Present. Undeniable.

This is the theology behind every candle we light.

When we light a candle, we are enacting the gospel. We are saying, with our hands and with fire, that light exists, that it matters, that it refuses to be extinguished.

And we are making a wager — a small, stubborn, hopeful wager — that the darkness does not get the last word.

That is not a small thing. Especially right now. Especially in a world that can feel very dark.

What Each Flame Carries

The candles on our altar are called the Eucharistic lights. They have been present at Christian altars since at least the fourth century — first as practical necessity in underground worship spaces, then as a symbol that remained long after electric lights made them unnecessary. We keep them because some things should not be traded for convenience.

The Paschal candle — that tall pillar we bless each Easter Vigil — carries the most ancient symbolism of all. It is lit from new fire struck in the darkness outside the church. It is the first light of Easter. Every baptism in our community is celebrated in its light, because baptism is a dying and a rising, a passage from darkness into the light of Christ.

I'll tell you what I notice every year at the Easter Vigil: I never get through it without being moved. Something about standing in that darkened nave, holding a small flame, watching it spread from person to person as we sing Lumen Christi — the light of Christ — does something I cannot fully account for. Theology can explain it. But it also exceeds the explanation.

That's what symbols do. They carry more than words can hold.

We light candles because some truths are too large for words. They need fire.

The votive candles — the ones people light at our prayer station — are perhaps the most intimate. Each flame is a prayer made visible. A name held up to God. A grief, a hope, a gratitude too heavy or too tender to say out loud.

I think about all the prayers that have been lit in this place. All the people who stood where you might stand, set down a candle, and trusted that someone — Something — was receiving what they couldn't put into words.

That is communion. Not just with God, but with everyone who has ever stood in that spot and done the same.

Take It Home

Here is what I want to suggest, and it is simple: light a candle at home this week.

Not as a decoration. Not for ambiance. As a practice.

Before a meal, or during prayer, or in the middle of a hard evening when the news has been too much and the world feels too heavy — light a candle. Say nothing, or say everything. Let the flame do what flames do: push back against the dark, however slightly, with a light that is warm and alive and refuses to apologize for existing.

You will be joining a very long line of people who have done exactly this.

People who lit candles in catacombs when it was dangerous to gather. People who lit candles in cathedrals when the windows told the whole story of faith in colored glass. People who lit candles in small chapels and living rooms and hospital rooms and gravesides, across two thousand years, because they believed that light was not finished.

That Christ was not finished.

That the darkness — whatever darkness — had not won.

You are part of that story.

Every candle you light says so.

For Reflection This Week

Try lighting a candle at home during prayer or before a meal this week. As you light it, say simply: 'The light of Christ.' Then sit with what comes. You don't need to perform anything or feel anything in particular. Just let the flame be present, and be present with it.

Grace and peace,

Lee+

Coming up next — Series II: The Book of Common Prayer as a Way of Life

The Daily Office wasn't designed just for church — it was designed for you. We begin our second series by exploring how an ancient rhythm of prayer might be exactly what a distracted, exhausted, over-connected world needs most.

Four Days Late

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 15:01:51 GMT

When God Shows Up Four Days Late

There is a particular kind of grief that doesn’t just hurt — it accuses.

It’s the grief that looks toward heaven and says: you knew. You could have. You didn’t.

This Sunday we sit with one of the longest, most emotionally raw stories in all four Gospels — the raising of Lazarus. And if we let it, it will reach right into the places most of us keep locked.

Martha doesn’t wait at the door. She walks out to meet Jesus on the road. And the first thing she says to him is not a greeting. It is a verdict.

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

I want to stay with that sentence for a minute. Because I think a lot of us have said some version of it. Maybe not out loud. Maybe only in the car on the way home from the hospital, or at 3am when the silence got too loud. If you had been here. If you had answered. If you had come through just this once.

And here’s what the story doesn’t let us smooth over: Martha’s anger is not misplaced. Jesus got the message. He heard Lazarus was sick. He waited two more days before he went anywhere. John tells us plainly — Jesus loved this family, and he waited. That’s not a translation problem. That’s the text.

The Question We Actually Need to Ask

We tend to preach the raising of Lazarus as a story about what Jesus can do. And yes — the miracle is real and it matters. But I think the more urgent question is what you do in the four days before it.

What do you do when God shows up late and your brother is already in the tomb? When the window you were watching has closed? When the smell has confirmed what you were afraid to believe?

This story is for everyone who has prayed and gotten nothing. Everyone who waited for the thing that never came on time. It is not a story about easy faith. It is a story about what love looks like when it arrives too late — and what it does anyway.

God Shows Up and Cries First

There’s a moment in this story I have never been able to get past. Mary falls at Jesus’ feet weeping. The crowd is weeping. And Jesus — who already knows what he’s about to do, who knows the tomb is about to open — weeps with them.

The shortest verse in the Bible. Two words. Jesus wept.

He doesn’t manage the grief from a distance. He doesn’t offer an explanation. He gets inside it with them. Love does that. It enters the pain before it fixes anything. I don’t entirely know what to do with a God who cries. But I think I need it to be true.

The Part Jesus Hands to Us

The miracle happens. Lazarus walks out. Still wrapped in grave clothes, still smelling like the tomb, blinking in the sun. And Jesus turns to the crowd and says something that I think is meant for us just as much as it was for them.

“Unbind him. Let him go.”

He could have finished the job. He doesn’t. He hands the unbinding to the community.

There are people in every congregation who have walked out of their own tombs — survived addiction, abuse, incarceration, shame, the kind of grief that should have ended them. They’re here. They made it. And sometimes the church celebrates the miracle and then stands back while they shuffle around still wrapped in grave clothes. Still wearing the labels. Still treated like they smell like where they’ve been.

Resurrection makes the unbinding possible. The community has to actually do it.

That’s the word for this Sunday. Come and see what it looks like when we take it seriously.

Grace and peace,

Father Lee+

I Was Blind, Now I See

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 12:31:49 GMT

Sermon, Sunday, March 15, 2026

Sabbath is Not A Day Off

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 12:41:06 GMT

Faith In Everyday Life: Sabbath is not a day off

Somewhere along the way, we confused Sabbath with a nap.

Or a day of errands we couldn't fit in during the week. Or a morning at church, followed by the afternoon we were already behind on. We kept the name — Sabbath, Sunday, the Lord's Day — but quietly drained it of its content. What was once a revolutionary act became a scheduling preference.

And now we wonder why we're exhausted.

Sabbath isn't about doing less. It's about refusing to let productivity have the last word.

Let me be honest with you: I'm not very good at Sabbath. I suspect most of us aren't. The inbox doesn't stop. The sermon needs finishing. The list is always longer than the day. Rest, in our world, feels like something you earn — and most of us never quite feel like we've earned enough.

But that's exactly what Sabbath pushes back against.

Sabbath isn't about doing less. It's about refusing to let productivity have the last word.

The Original Protest

In Genesis 2, God rests on the seventh day — not because God was tired, but because the work was complete. The rest isn't a collapse at the end of a hard week. It's a declaration: this is enough. What has been made is good.

Then, in Exodus 20, Sabbath becomes commandment — and the reason given is striking. The Israelites are to rest because they were slaves in Egypt, and slaves don't get to rest. Sabbath, from the very beginning, is an act of liberation.

You are not a slave anymore — that's what the fourth commandment is saying. You are not defined by your output. You are not what you produce. One day in seven, you stop. You remember who you are. You remember whose you are.

This is not a wellness practice. This is a theological statement about the nature of human beings — that we are more than our usefulness, and that the God who made us knew we needed to be reminded of that regularly.

In a culture that never stops — that measures worth by productivity, that celebrates busyness as virtue and rest as laziness — Sabbath is not a retreat. It's a protest.

"In a culture that measures worth by productivity and celebrates busyness as virtue, Sabbath is not a retreat. It's a protest."

What the Episcopal Tradition Offers

We Episcopalians have something the wider culture has largely lost: a liturgical rhythm that structures time itself. The church calendar doesn't just mark religious holidays — it reorders the year around the life of God, not the demands of the market.

Sunday worship is part of that. When we gather for the Eucharist, we are not just attending a program. We are enacting an alternative reality — one where time belongs to God, where everyone at the table is equally beloved, where the week's last word is not our to-do list but the bread and the cup and the words of sending: go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.

That sending is not back to business as usual. It's back to the world — but differently. Sabbath-shaped.

And that rhythm, when we actually live into it, changes us. Not all at once. Gradually, stubbornly, like water wearing stone. We begin to discover that the world does not, in fact, fall apart when we stop for a day. That God was already at work in the hours we weren't. That rest is not a reward for finished work — because the work is never finished. Rest is a practice of trust.

The Hardest Practice

I want to be careful not to make Sabbath sound easy. For many of us — especially those working multiple jobs, caring for children or aging parents, living with anxiety that doesn't clock out — a full day of rest is not simply a choice. It's a luxury that feels out of reach.

The tradition doesn't shame us for that. But it does keep asking the question.

Maybe Sabbath begins smaller than a day. Maybe it begins with an hour on Sunday afternoon when you put the phone in another room. Maybe it begins with a meal — an actual meal, unhurried, with people you love. Maybe it begins with morning prayer, five minutes before the noise starts, just sitting with God before you perform for anyone else.

The practice is not about perfection. It's about direction.

We are heading somewhere — toward a life less enslaved to the clock, more attentive to the holy, more trusting that our worth is given, not earned. Sabbath is the practice of that direction, one week at a time.

"Rest is not a reward for finished work — because the work is never finished. Rest is a practice of trust."

A Different Kind of Enough

There is a line in the Psalms I keep returning to: "It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for God gives sleep to his beloved" (Psalm 127:2).

God gives sleep to his beloved.

Not to the most productive. Not to the ones who finally cleared their inbox. To the beloved.

Which is you. Which is all of us. Before we do a single thing.

Sabbath is the weekly practice of believing that.

So this week — not perfectly, not all day, just somewhere — stop.

Put something down.

Let the world turn without your help for a little while.

And remember: you were beloved before you were useful. You will be beloved long after the inbox is empty.

That is enough.

That has always been enough.

FOR REFLECTION THIS WEEK

Where in your week could you carve out even one hour of genuine rest — not scrolling, not errands, but true stopping? What would it feel like to trust that the world will be okay without your effort for that hour? Try it once this week, and notice what comes up.

Grace and peace,

Father Lee+

Next in this series: Why We Light Candles

Every candle lit in our nave tells a story older than electricity. In our final article of Series I, we explore what our liturgical symbols are actually saying — and what it means to carry that light into the rest of the week.

Five Words

Mon, 09 Mar 2026 15:11:37 GMT

A reflection for the Fourth Sunday in Lent | John 9:1–41

The religious establishment of first-century Jerusalem was not threatened by a blind man sitting by the road. They were fine with him there. Blind, begging, in his place — that they could work with.

What they could not work with was a formerly blind man who wouldn't shut up about it.

This Sunday we're in John 9, and it is one of my favorite texts in the entire gospel — not because of the miracle, but because of what happens after the miracle. Jesus heals a man born blind and then essentially walks off stage, and for the rest of the chapter, this unnamed beggar gets hauled before the religious authorities and interrogated. Over and over. How did this happen? Who did this? Are you sure this is even you? Give glory to God — which is first-century for: give us a version of your story we can manage.

And every time, this man — no credentials, no connections, no theological training — looks them dead in the eye and says the same five words: (six if you count the I twice!)

I was blind. Now I see.

That's it. That's all he's got. And it is, apparently, enough to bring the whole institution to a boil.

Here's what gets me about this story. The Pharisees aren't threatened by his blindness. They're threatened by his sight. They needed him to stay where he was — suffering quietly, not making claims, not insisting on the reality of his own experience. His healing didn't just restore his vision. It made him impossible to manage.

And we are still doing this to people.

We are still building careful, sophisticated systems for helping certain people doubt themselves. Doubt their experience of discrimination. Doubt their identity. Doubt whether the place they've called home really belongs to them. Doubt whether what happened to them actually happened.

The man in John 9 is having none of it. And honestly? Good for him.

Come on Sunday. There's more to this story — including what happens when the institution finally loses patience with him entirely. It gets worse before it gets better. And then it gets really, really good.

Faith in Everyday Life: God in the Grocery Store

Sat, 07 Mar 2026 19:09:12 GMT

God In the Grocery Store

God became flesh on a Tuesday.

That's not in the text, exactly. But John 1:14 tells us the Word became flesh and dwelt among us — and dwelling is an ordinary thing. It means groceries. It means traffic. It means the neighbor whose music is too loud and the coworker whose email arrived at 11 PM. Incarnation doesn't just mean a manger in Bethlehem. It means God decided that the stuff of ordinary life was worth showing up for.

Which raises a question worth sitting with: if God moved into the neighborhood — our neighborhood, the messy, fluorescent-lit, crowded neighborhood of human life — then where have we been looking?

If God moved into the neighborhood, our messy, fluorescent-lit neighborhood of human life — then where have we been looking?

By the end of our liturgy on Sunday, I always feel God. The Eucharist does something in me — every time, without fail. But then Monday comes. And Tuesday. And the feeling doesn't always travel.

Which is what got me started paying attention somewhere else entirely. I think about this when I'm at the grocery store.

Not the cathedral. Not during the Eucharist. The grocery store — with the carts that pull left, and the checkout line that's always longer than you planned, and the person ahead of you fumbling for their rewards card while you're already running late.

That's where I've started asking the question. Not as a spiritual exercise — just as a slow habit of attention. What if God is here, too?

Not in spite of the ordinary. In it.

The Scandal of the Ordinary

The early church fought hard over the Incarnation. There were plenty of people who found it more elegant to believe that Jesus only appeared to be human — that God wouldn't really stoop to sweat and hunger and the indignity of needing sleep. It seemed more dignified that way.

The church said: no. What God did in Jesus was not a costume. It was a commitment.

The Word became flesh — not a projection, not a symbol, not a divine guest appearance. Flesh. The same flesh that gets tired and hungry and stands in checkout lines.

This is what theologians call the scandal of particularity. God didn't become humanity in the abstract. God became a specific person, in a specific place, eating specific meals with specific people — many of whom were considered the wrong kind of people to be eating with.

That specificity is not a limitation of the Incarnation. It is its entire point.

And it has teeth. Because if God chose to dwell among the poor, the sick, the outcast — if Jesus spent his time with the people polite society had written off — then Incarnation is not just a warm theological idea. It is a challenge to every instinct we have to look away from suffering, to stay in our lane, to keep the sacred safely separate from the inconvenient.

God loves the particular. God enters the ordinary. And if that's true of God, it changes everything about how we move through our days — including who we bother to see.

A Different Kind of Attention

The mystic Simone Weil wrote that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. She wasn't talking about mindfulness apps. She was talking about the kind of full, unhurried presence we almost never give — to each other, to the moment, to God.

Most of us move through our days on autopilot. We're present in body and somewhere else entirely in mind — running the list, rehearsing the argument, dreading the meeting. The grocery store is somewhere we pass through, not somewhere we arrive.

But what if we did arrive?

What if the person ahead of us fumbling for their card was not an obstacle to our schedule — but a human being, made in the image of God, having a day we know nothing about? What if the tired checkout clerk whose name is on a little badge deserved to be seen — really seen — for thirty seconds?

What if the ordinary was charged with the presence of the One who made it all?

The Incarnation didn't end at the resurrection. It opened something. God is still here, still dwelling, still present in the flesh-and-blood stuff of our days.

This is not magical thinking. It is incarnational thinking — the logical conclusion of what we confess every Sunday.

The Incarnation didn't end at the resurrection. It opened something. The Spirit is poured out. The Body of Christ is still in the world — still us, the church, flesh and blood, carrying the presence of God into every ordinary place we go.

Which means the grocery store is not outside the reach of the sacred. Nothing is.

What Does it Mean on a Tuesday?

I'm not asking us to turn errands into a spiritual performance. I'm not suggesting we hold hands with strangers in the produce section. I'm asking something smaller and stranger than that.

What if we carried the question with us — loosely, lightly — as we moved through our days? Not: where is God in this grand moment? But: where is God in this one?

What if we let the Incarnation do what it was always meant to do — not pull us out of ordinary life, but consecrate it?

Because here's what I keep coming back to: Jesus didn't spend most of his ministry in the Temple. He spent it on roads, at tables, in fishing boats, at wells, in the middle of crowds and funerals and dinner parties. He was always on his way somewhere, always stopping for someone, always finding the holy in the middle of the human.

And the people who encountered him there — not in the Temple, but on the road — are the ones who walked away changed.

That is still where he meets us. On the road. In the store. In the car. In the middle of an ordinary Tuesday that looks like nothing — until you look closer.

So go to the grocery store.

Go with the distracted mind and the long list and the cart that pulls left.

But go there as someone who believes that God has already arrived.

That the person ahead of you is made in the image of God.

That the ordinary is the place God chose — and keeps choosing.

That nothing in your day is outside the reach of grace.

Nothing.

Not even this.

FOR REFLECTION THIS WEEK

Choose one ordinary errand or routine this week — the grocery store, the commute, the lunch break. Before you begin, take one breath and ask: where might I notice God here? You don't need to find an answer. Just ask the question, and pay attention.

Grace and peace,

Father Lee+

Next in this series: Sabbath Is Not a Day Off

What does it mean to truly rest — not as leisure, but as resistance? We'll explore the Episcopal tradition of Sabbath and why it matters more than ever in a world that never stops.

Something New Is Coming - and It's For You

Sat, 07 Mar 2026 19:09:00 GMT

Faith In Everyday Life

There is a question I get asked more than almost any other — not in church, but everywhere else. At the grocery store, at school pickup, at neighborhood gatherings. People find out I'm a priest and they ask, sometimes directly and sometimes sideways: how do I make my faith feel real on the days when I'm not in church?

It's the right question. And I've been thinking about how to answer it — not just in a sermon, not just in a moment, but in something people can hold on to, return to, share with a friend.

So we built something.

Twelve articles. Four series. One question: what does it mean to follow Christ not just on Sunday, but on every ordinary day of the week?

Starting this month, Sts. MM&M is launching Faith in Everyday Life — a new blog series written for our whole congregation. Twelve articles across four series, each one exploring what it means to follow Christ not just on Sunday, but in the grocery store, at the dinner table, in the neighborhood, in the seasons of the year.

This is not a theology course. It is not a Bible study. It is, I hope, something closer to a letter — from a friend who happens to know a lot of theology, written for real people living real lives in Coral Springs, Florida, and beyond, in 2026.

THE FOUR SERIES

The Sacred in the Ordinary

Incarnation & everyday life

The Book of Common Prayer as a Way of Life

Liturgy & spiritual formation

III

Faith in the Public Square

Justice & Anglican tradition

Seasons of the Soul

The liturgical calendar & transformation

Each article is short enough to read over coffee — around 800 to 1,000 words — and ends with a simple reflection question or practice to carry into the week. They are written to be accessible whether you have been Episcopalian your whole life or walked through our doors for the first time last Sunday.

They are also written to be shared. If something moves you, forward it to a neighbor. Print it for a friend who has been meaning to come back to church. Leave a copy on the break room table at work. These articles exist for the people inside our walls and the people just outside them.

HOW TO ACCESS THE SERIES

�� Read Online

Visit stmmcs.net and find the blog on our home page. New articles published regularly.

��️ Pick Up a Copy

Printed copies of each article are available in the narthex after every Sunday service.

�� Get It by Email

�� Share With Someone

Know someone who's been curious about faith? Forward an article. Leave one somewhere. That's evangelism.

The first article — God in the Grocery Store — is available now. Pick one up on your way out this Sunday, or find it at stmmcs.net.

My prayer is that something in these pages meets you exactly where you are — on a Tuesday, in the ordinary, wondering if God is anywhere nearby.

The answer is yes. Always yes.

Come find out.

Grace and peace,

Father Lee+

From Fear to Trust in the Night

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 15:24:55 GMT

Reflection on John 3:1-17

Lent has a way of bringing us face to face with the things we would rather manage quietly. Not just our sins in the obvious sense, but our fears. The fears we’ve learned to live around. The fears we call “being realistic.” The fears that shape how we see God, other people, and even ourselves.

That is part of why Nicodemus is such a compelling figure for the Second Sunday of Lent. He comes to Jesus at night. People have long noticed that detail, and for good reason. Night can mean uncertainty. Night can mean caution. Night can mean he is not yet ready to be seen. But night is also where honest questions often surface. It is where the soul stops performing. It is where we finally admit what we cannot fix on our own.

Nicodemus comes with questions, and Jesus does not shut him down. That matters. There is good news in that alone: Christ receives people who come with questions. Christ receives people who come uncertain. Christ receives people who are not ready to speak in bright, confident language. In other words, Christ receives people like us.

John 3 is often reduced to a single verse pulled out of the conversation, but the conversation itself is worth staying with. Jesus is speaking to a man who knows the religious tradition, who has status, who is not careless or unserious—and yet something in him is still unsettled. He can see that something is happening in Jesus, but he cannot yet fully make sense of it. That feels deeply human.

Many of us know what it is like to carry faith and fear at the same time. To believe, and still hesitate. To want to trust God, and still keep one hand on control. To long for new life, while also resisting whatever change new life may require. Lent does not shame that struggle. It exposes it so grace can meet it. And maybe that is one of the gifts of this Gospel passage: it reminds us that transformation does not begin with pretending we are fearless. It begins with coming to Jesus as we are.

Fear is not only personal, of course. It also shapes communities. It can narrow compassion. It can make us suspicious. It can make harshness feel like wisdom and indifference feel like strength. We live in a time when fear is constantly trying to disciple us—through noise, outrage, and the steady pressure to harden ourselves. But the Gospel does not form us that way.

Jesus speaks of new birth, of Spirit, of a life that cannot be reduced to control or managed into existence. He speaks of the kind of life God gives—life that opens us, reorients us, and teaches us to trust again. And then there is that line so many people know by heart: “For God so loved the world…”

Not just the polished world. Not just the world we approve of. Not just the people who seem easy to love. The world. This wounded, beautiful, divided world. In Lent, that word “world” lands differently. It reminds us that God’s movement toward us is not driven by contempt, but by love. Not by denial of what is broken, but by a refusal to abandon what is broken. It is the kind of love that tells the truth and still does not let go.

So perhaps this week’s invitation is simple:

Notice where fear has been shaping your imagination. Notice where it has made you guarded, reactive, or tired. Notice where it has made trust feel dangerous. And then bring that to Christ. Even if it still feels like night. Even if your prayer sounds more like a question than a declaration. Even if you are not sure what comes next.

Nicodemus came at night. And Jesus met him there. That is good news for all of us.

The Lie the Serpent Told

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 14:56:07 GMT

Sermon, February 22, 2026

Lent, the Garden, and the First Lie We Still Believe

Tue, 17 Feb 2026 15:33:26 GMT

Genesis 2:15–17; 3:1–7 (First Sunday in Lent)

There’s a reason the Church hands us the Garden story at the doorway of Lent.

Not because Lent is about guilt. Not because God is standing at the edge of our lives with a clipboard, waiting for us to mess up. But because this story names something painfully familiar: how quickly we move from trust to grasping… and how fast grasping turns into hiding.

Genesis says God places the human being in the garden “to till it and keep it.” In other words: to serve it and guard it. Before there’s temptation, there’s vocation. Before there’s failure, there’s a gift and a calling. The first picture we get of humanity isn’t depravity—it’s dignity. We are gardeners. Stewards. Partners in the care of something beautiful.

And then, right there in the middle of blessing, comes a boundary: “You may freely eat… but not from this tree.”

That’s where a lot of us tense up. Boundaries make us nervous—especially if we’ve known religious boundary-setting used as control. But notice what God does not do here. God doesn’t lock the garden. God doesn’t keep the human on a short leash. God doesn’t say, “Don’t touch anything; you’ll ruin it.” God says, essentially: This is a world overflowing with good. Live in it freely. And also, trust me enough to let one thing be mine, not yours.

Which is exactly where the serpent begins: not with a blatant invitation to evil, but with a subtle twist of God’s words—turning a generous God into a stingy one.

The serpent’s strategy hasn’t changed

The serpent doesn’t start with “Rebel.” The serpent starts with “Did God really say…?” Not as a sincere question, but as a seed of suspicion. And then comes the real lie—not that the fruit looks good, but that God is holding out on you.

That lie is older than any of us, and still remarkably effective:

God can’t really be trusted.
Obedience is scarcity.
You’re on your own.
If you don’t take control, you’ll be stuck with less.

Lent invites us to notice where that voice has taken up residence in our own minds.

A few misconceptions that trip us up

This passage is famous, but we don’t always hear it clearly. A few common misunderstandings can flatten it into something it’s not:

“It was an apple.”
Genesis never says apple. That detail comes later from art and legend. The point isn’t the produce. The point is the posture: reaching for what isn’t ours to define.
“This is mostly about sex.”
People love to read this as if desire itself is the villain. But Genesis doesn’t say their bodies became shameful; it says their eyes were opened and they suddenly experienced shame. The problem isn’t embodiment. The tragedy is that distrust turns intimacy into anxiety and innocence into self-protection.
“Eve is the problem.”
Nope. The text says the man is with her, and he eats too. This isn’t a story about “women being easily deceived.” It’s a story about humanity—together—falling for a distorted image of God.
“God didn’t want them to know anything.”
The tree is called the knowledge of good and evil. The issue isn’t learning or wisdom. The issue is the desire to seize the authority to define good and evil on our own terms, apart from relationship—deciding what is true, what is right, what is worth it, with the self at the center.
“They didn’t really die, so God was exaggerating.”
They don’t collapse on the spot, but something dies immediately: unguarded trust. Easy communion. The freedom of being unashamed. Death enters the human story first as separation—then works its way outward.

When we reduce this story to a cartoon about rule-breaking, we miss the deeper ache: it’s about what happens when we stop receiving life as gift and start grabbing at it like it’s all on us.

The moment everything changes: shame

After they eat, the first thing that shows up isn’t fireworks or enlightenment. It’s fig leaves. That’s such a human turn. Shame makes costumes. Shame makes us manage our image. Shame turns us inward. Shame convinces us that we need to hide the parts of ourselves that feel exposed—our fear, our need, our regret, our “not enough.”

If you’ve ever snapped at someone you love and then immediately tried to justify it, you’ve met the fig leaf. If you’ve ever avoided prayer because you felt like God was disappointed in you, you’ve met the fig leaf. If you’ve ever tried to control everything because vulnerability felt unsafe, you’ve met the fig leaf.

And that’s one of the quiet gifts of Lent: it gives us permission to stop pretending. Not to wallow—just to tell the truth. To notice our hiding places and name them without flinching. Because healing rarely begins with willpower. It begins with honesty.

Lent is not punishment—it’s return

Read the Garden story carefully and you’ll notice something that matters: God doesn’t abandon the garden. God doesn’t storm off. God comes walking. God seeks.

Even when we hide, God moves toward us.

Lent is the season where we practice stepping out from behind the fig leaves—not by impressing God, but by returning to God. Prayer, fasting, self-examination, acts of mercy: these are not spiritual chores to earn love. They’re ways of re-learning trust. Ways of letting God be God again—good, generous, not withholding.

The serpent’s lie is that God can’t be trusted. Lent’s slow, steady work is to let that lie lose its grip. So maybe this week, don’t start with: “How can I be better?” Start with: “Where have I started believing God is not good?” And then—quietly, bravely—take one step out of hiding.

God is already in the garden.

Glory fot the Valley

Tue, 17 Feb 2026 15:14:42 GMT

Sermon, February 15, 2026

A Glimpse of Glory

Wed, 11 Feb 2026 13:54:49 GMT

A Word for the Week Ahead

There are weeks when faith feels simple. Your heart feels steady. Prayer comes easily. You feel grounded—like you know where you’re standing and why.

And then there are weeks when it doesn’t.

Life gets loud. The calendar fills up. The worries creep back in. The world feels sharp around the edges. And even if we can’t always name it, we can feel the weight of it.

That’s why I’m grateful for this Sunday’s readings. Both Exodus 24 and Matthew 17 place us on a mountain—not as an escape from real life, but as a reminder that God can meet us with clarity, strength, and perspective when we need it most. These passages hold together two things we often separate: God’s holiness and God’s nearness. Awe and comfort. Mystery and mercy.

And maybe that’s what many of us need right now—not easy answers, not quick fixes, but a deeper steadiness. The kind that comes when we remember who God is… and who we are in God.

If you’re feeling tired, stretched thin, uncertain, or simply hungry for something solid—consider this your invitation.

Come worship with us this Sunday. Come as you are. Let the prayers carry you. Let the music open a window. Let the Scriptures speak in their own way and time. And let’s ask God for the kind of light that doesn’t disappear when the week begins again.

Salt Dissents

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 15:23:32 GMT

Sermon, Sunday, February 8, 2026 - Black History. Month Celebration

Do, Love, Walk

Sun, 08 Feb 2026 13:06:35 GMT

Sermon, February 1, 2026 Do Love Walk

Come and See

Sun, 08 Feb 2026 12:59:37 GMT

Sermon, January 18, 2025 Come and See

You are Salt

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 14:01:05 GMT

You are Salt

Most of us don’t wake up thinking, Today I’m going to be brave.

We wake up thinking about what’s on the calendar. What we have to juggle. Who needs us. What we’re carrying that nobody else sees. And lately, for many people, there’s something else in the mix too: a low-grade heaviness in the air. A sense that the world is tense. That conversations are sharper. That it’s easier to pull back than to stay open-hearted. That’s why Jesus’ words in Matthew’s Gospel land with such quiet force:

“You are the salt of the earth.”

Notice what Jesus doesn’t say. He doesn’t say, “Try to become salt.” He doesn’t say, “Here’s how to earn your way into usefulness.” He speaks to his followers as they are—ordinary people in a pressured world—and he names something true about them.

You are salt.

In the ancient world, salt wasn’t just a flavoring. It preserved. It slowed decay. It kept what was good from spoiling. Which means Jesus is not handing out a compliment. He’s describing a calling.

In a world where compassion can sour into suspicion, where truth can get traded for whatever keeps us comfortable, where people can be reduced to labels instead of honored as neighbors—Jesus says his people are meant to be a preserving presence. That kind of faithfulness is rarely flashy. It’s often quiet. It looks like staying tender when cynicism would be easier. It looks like refusing to let fear shrink your heart. It looks like holding the line on human dignity—even when the prevailing mood says, “It doesn’t matter,” or “That’s just the way things are.” And then Jesus adds a warning that feels a little sharp—because it’s meant to:

Salt can lose its taste.

There are a lot of ways to lose your “saltiness.” Not just by doing something obviously wrong. Sometimes it happens through exhaustion. Through numbness. Through the slow habit of looking away. When we stop noticing suffering. When we stop caring. When we decide it’s safer to blend in than to love with courage. But Jesus doesn’t call disciples to disappear. He calls disciples to preserve what is good. So here’s a simple question to carry this week:

Where is God asking me to keep my taste?

Because when Jesus calls you salt, he’s telling you this: your presence matters. Your faithfulness matters. Your courage—expressed as love—matters.

You are salt. So don’t go bland.

Do, Love, Walk

Thu, 29 Jan 2026 17:17:08 GMT

Refelction on Micah 6:1-8

What God Requires in a Beatitudes World

It’s hard to miss how tense things feel right now. Conversations get sharp fast. People are worn down. Even when we try to step away from the noise, it follows us.

So here’s a simple question to sit with this week: What does faithfulness look like in a moment like this?

Micah’s answer is short enough to memorize and honest enough to challenge us: do, love, walk. Not “impress God.” Not “out-argue someone.” Not “prove you’re right.”

Do justice. That’s more than having strong opinions. It’s choosing what is fair. It’s telling the truth. It’s paying attention to who is being pushed aside and deciding you won’t help the pushing.

Love mercy. Mercy doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. It means refusing to let anger turn into cruelty. It means speaking in a way that keeps the other person human, even when you disagree. It means not letting contempt become your default language.

Walk humbly with your God. Humility isn’t weakness. It’s staying grounded. It’s remembering you’re not the judge of the whole world. It’s making room for prayer, for listening, for repentance when it’s needed, and for courage that doesn’t need to humiliate someone else.

Then Jesus, in the Beatitudes, blesses people the world often overlooks—meek, merciful, hungry for what is right, willing to make peace. It’s a reminder that God’s idea of “blessed” doesn’t line up with what gets rewarded on the loudest stages.

So maybe the best question for the week isn’t “How do we fix it all?” Maybe it’s this:

Where can I do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly today?

Start there. That’s a faithful step.

Clarity in the Chaos

Wed, 21 Jan 2026 14:19:33 GMT

A Reflection on the Confession of Peter

Most mornings lately, I don’t wake up to quiet.

I wake up to a screen already lit up—headlines, notifications, opinions, warnings, outrage… all of it arriving before I’ve even had a sip of coffee. And if I’m not careful, my heart is already racing while I’m still standing in my kitchen.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

It’s not just that life is busy. It’s that the whole country feels tense. Like we’re living with the volume turned up and the patience turned down. People are tired. People are quick. Families are divided. Neighbors are suspicious. And a lot of us are carrying a kind of background anxiety we didn’t used to carry—like something could snap at any moment.

And in a moment like this, here’s what I’ve noticed: fear is a powerful tool.

When people are afraid, they’re easier to steer. When people are angry, they’re easier to use. When everyone is reactive, the loudest voices—whether they’re in government, media, business, or just our own social circles—can move a crowd simply by raising the temperature.

Which is why Matthew 16 feels so timely to me right now.

Jesus takes the disciples to Caesarea Philippi and asks them a question:

“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” (Matthew 16:13)

That’s not just a Bible question. That’s a modern question. Who do people say Jesus is—today, in our world? A good teacher? A symbol? A mascot for whichever side we’re on? A spiritual accessory that we pull out when we want comfort, but put away when he might actually challenge us? Then Jesus does what Jesus always does—he turns the question from “out there” to “in here.”

“But who do you say that I am?” (16:15)

Not, “What have you heard?” Not, “What do your friends think?” Not, “What’s the safest answer in public?” You. Who do you say that I am? Peter answers with the kind of sentence that doesn’t just fill a blank—it sets a direction:

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” (16:16)

And I don’t want us to miss how bold that is. “Messiah” isn’t a vague religious compliment. It’s a claim about reality. It’s Peter saying, “You’re the One. You’re God’s answer. You’re the true King. You’re the One we’ve been waiting for.” Which means: if Jesus is the Messiah, then Jesus is not one voice among many. If Jesus is Messiah, then he gets to be the center —the voice that shapes all the other voices. And that matters right now, because so many voices are trying to disciple us.

Some of them disciple us into fear: Protect yourself. Assume the worst. Close ranks. Don’t trust anyone. Some disciple us into contempt: Mock the other side. Reduce people to stereotypes. Write them off. Some disciple us into numbness: Tune it all out. Don’t care too much. Just survive. And some disciple us into a kind of hard-hearted “realism” that makes peace with cruelty: That’s just how it is. That’s the cost. That’s what we have to do. And that’s where the Gospel starts to feel less like comfort and more like confrontation. Because if Jesus is Lord, then we cannot be shaped by fear.

We cannot confess Jesus as the Son of the living God and then treat truth like it doesn’t matter. We cannot worship the Crucified One and then shrug at the suffering of the vulnerable. We cannot follow the One who welcomed strangers, touched the unclean, lifted the poor, and broke bread with outsiders… and then make our peace with dehumanizing language about whole groups of people. That’s not “being political.” That’s Christianity.

When we say “speak truth to power,” I don’t mean partisan talking points. I mean the kind of truth Scripture has always spoken to power—the truth that rulers and systems are accountable to God. The truth that might makes right is a lie. The truth that every human being bears the image of God, and therefore no one is disposable. The truth that God hears the cry of the oppressed, and God does not ask the Church to keep quiet for the sake of comfort.

And notice where Jesus asks this question: Caesarea Philippi. This isn’t neutral ground. This is a place soaked in empire. A place where people knew who held power and what happened when you crossed it. A place where it would have been easy to keep your head down and say something safe. Jesus asks for clarity there on purpose. Because confession isn’t just a private religious moment. It’s allegiance. It’s the quiet, steady refusal to give ultimate loyalty to anything that isn’t God.

Then Jesus responds to Peter:

“On this rock I will build my church… and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.” (16:18)

I hear that promise differently when the country feels shaky. Jesus doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that always wins arguments.” He doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that is always comfortable.” He doesn’t say, “On this rock I’ll build a Church that never suffers.” He says he’ll build a Church that can’t be taken down by the powers of death.

And that’s what we’re up against in every generation: not just bad policies or bad leaders or bad ideas, but the deeper machinery of death—fear, lies, scapegoating, cruelty, despair, violence, the slow erosion of compassion. The thing that makes people stop seeing each other as human beings. Jesus looks at all of that and says, It will not have the final word. Then he says something that has been misunderstood—and misused—over the centuries:

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven… whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (16:19)

Let me say it plainly: the keys are not given so the Church can act like a bouncer. Keys are for opening. The Church is meant to open doors: to mercy, to repentance, to truth-telling, to restoration, to dignity, to justice. The Church is meant to loosen what’s been tied too tight around the human heart—shame, fear, hatred, addiction, despair, the lies people have believed about themselves and about God.

So here’s the question I’m sitting with in this moment:

Are we using our faith like a weapon… or like a key? Because right now, our country does not need more Christians who are easily provoked and easily manipulated—Christians who confuse outrage with holiness, or cruelty with strength, or certainty with faith. We need Christians who are steady. Christians who can tell the truth without becoming vicious. Christians who can resist injustice without losing their humanity. Christians who can love their neighbors without needing to agree with them. Christians who refuse to let fear make their decisions.

And that kind of steadiness doesn’t come from having the perfect opinion. It comes from returning—again and again—to the center. Jesus still asks the question, right in the middle of a tense and noisy nation: “But who do you say that I am?” And if we can answer that—not with slogans, not with performance, but with our lives—then we become what this moment desperately needs: not loud, not smug, not cynical… but clear.

The Light Has Come

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 12:55:49 GMT

Epiphany can feel like one more date on the church calendar—another reading, another familiar story, another star overhead.

But Isaiah won’t let us keep it that tidy.

“Arise, shine; for your light has come.” That’s not a gentle suggestion. It’s a summons. It assumes something has already happened—God has drawn near—so staying where we are no longer makes sense.

Isaiah is honest about the world as it is: darkness, thick darkness, the kind that settles over communities and over hearts. And then, right alongside that reality, comes this stubborn promise: God’s light isn’t a theory. It’s a presence. And when God’s presence becomes real, people start turning toward it. Movement begins. A different kind of future becomes imaginable.

Matthew tells the same truth through a journey. The Magi are outsiders—people you wouldn’t expect to be first in line for Jesus. They don’t arrive with certainty or a polished faith. They arrive with questions, with risk, with the willingness to follow what they’ve seen.

And that’s where Epiphany presses on us a little.

Because the point isn’t that they saw a sign. The point is that they went .

Meanwhile, the powerful in Jerusalem hear the news and don’t rejoice. They tighten their grip. Epiphany has a way of exposing what we’re loyal to—what we protect, what we fear losing, what we try to control. God’s light comforts, yes. But it also confronts. It refuses to leave us unchanged.

So here’s the Epiphany question I’ve been sitting with this week:

If God is shining light on your life—where is that light trying to move you?

Maybe it’s a step back toward prayer when you’ve gone silent.
Maybe it’s a step toward honesty about what’s really going on inside you.
Maybe it’s a step toward reconciliation, or courage, or generosity.
Maybe it’s a step toward someone who is afraid, overlooked, or pushed to the margins.

Epiphany isn’t about admiring the light from a safe distance.

It’s about what happens when the light has come—and we finally stop pretending we can stay where we are.

Because when God shines, people move.

Epiphany

Remembering What the Church Proclaims

Tue, 30 Dec 2025 16:04:01 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

Dear friends in Christ,

As I shared with those at church last Sunday, and as we come to the end of one year and look toward the next, I’ve been thinking about Christmas—not just what we celebrated, but what we received. And I keep coming back to one moment that feels, to me, like the greatest gift of the season.

On Christmas Day, I was able to bring the Holy Eucharist to two Iranian sisters being held at the Broward Transitional Center. They have been detained since December 3rd, and with that comes the kind of strain that is hard to describe unless you’ve sat with someone living it—uncertainty, fear, long days, and the ache of being cut off from what is familiar and safe.

That day, we prayed together. We read Scripture. And we celebrated Communion—the first time they had been able to receive the Eucharist since their detention began. When the moment came, they wept. Not because everything was suddenly fixed, but because in that simple, holy act, they could feel again what the Church has always proclaimed: Christ is near. Christ has not abandoned them.

I thought of the words we hear at Christmas: “The Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14). God did not stay distant. God came close. And that nearness is not only for sanctuaries filled with candlelight—it is for hospital rooms, kitchen tables, and yes, detention centers too.

The angels called it “good news of great joy” (Luke 2:10). That’s the part that can be hard for us to understand: Christian joy is not the same thing as an easy life. Joy can show up while the hard thing is still happening. It doesn’t erase grief or fear—but it does remind us that darkness doesn’t get the last word. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). I saw a glimpse of that light on Christmas Day, in tears and trembling hands, in bread broken and a cup shared.

And I’ll tell you something else that surprised me: their joy became a gift to me. I went there to bring them the sacrament, but I left with my own heart strengthened—reminded of what the Church is for, and what we are meant to carry into the world.

Because the Eucharist is not only comfort. It is communion. It is Christ making himself present, feeding his people, binding us together when life is trying to pull us apart. And it forms us. It shapes us into people who can show up with steadiness and love.

Jesus puts it plainly: “I was in prison and you visited me” (Matthew 25:36). He doesn’t speak of the suffering “out there,” as if it’s far away from him. He identifies himself with those who are confined, those who are afraid, those who feel unseen. And after the resurrection, the disciples recognized him “in the breaking of the bread” (Luke 24:35). That recognition isn’t meant to stay in the past—it’s meant to teach us how to see Christ now.

So as we enter this new year, I want to offer a simple prayer to hold onto:

Lord, show me where you are. And give me the courage to come close.

My prayer for you—and for us as a parish—is that 2026 will be a year when we live that prayer: steady, faithful, and rooted in real love. Not love that only speaks, but love that acts—love that comes close, shows up, and carries Christ’s joy into the lives of others.

May the Light of Christ guide you.
May the peace of Christ steady you.
And may the joy of Christ be alive in you—and shared through you.

With love in Christ,

Christmas Eve Sermon 2025

Mon, 29 Dec 2025 16:10:12 GMT

God chooses to be with us even when there isn't room, even when life is crowded, even when the timing is hard, even when the world is undkind. God does not wait.

A Christmas Message

Tue, 23 Dec 2025 14:02:22 GMT

Christmas, 2025

Beloved friends in Christ,

As Christmas draws near, I’m mindful that this season comes to us every year—and yet it lands differently each time. Some of us are walking into Christmas with joy. Some are carrying grief. Some are grateful for new beginnings. Others are simply doing their best to get through the days in front of them.

And for many, it’s been a hard season.

The weight people are carrying is real: the pressure of rising costs, health concerns, strained relationships, uncertain work, worry about loved ones, and the anxiety that comes from watching our world feel so unsettled. Even the holidays can intensify what’s already there—especially what’s missing.

So if you’re coming to Christmas with mixed feelings—joy and sadness, gratitude and stress, faith and questions—you’re not alone. There is nothing unusual about that. It’s part of being human.

This is one reason the Christmas story matters so much. God did not wait for everything to be calm or resolved before coming near. Jesus is born into a world that is complicated, into a family that is vulnerable, into circumstances that are far from ideal. Christmas does not pretend life is easy. It tells us God chooses to meet us in the middle of it.

Emmanuel—God with us.

Not God with us once we’ve fixed everything. Not God with us once the grief is gone, the bills are paid, the diagnosis changes, or the fear settles down. God with us now—present, steady, and faithful.

Sometimes God’s work begins in ways that don’t look impressive. A child. A manger. Ordinary people. A simple promise spoken over them: “Do not be afraid.” That is still the word of Christmas. And it is still true.

So here is my prayer for you this Christmas: that you would feel no pressure to force cheer or to carry the season on your own. That you would receive what God actually offers—grace. That you would find moments of peace, even if life remains busy. That you would know you are held by God, and cared for by this community.

If this year has worn you down, please hear this plainly: you don’t have to carry it alone. The Church is not a place for the “already fine.” It is a place for real people who need real mercy. Wherever you find yourself right now—steady or struggling, hopeful or exhausted—you belong here. And you are prayed for.

On behalf of our clergy and staff, thank you for the ways you love, serve, give, and show up for one another. Your faithfulness matters more than you know. Through your kindness, your perseverance, your generosity, and your prayers, Christ is present in this world.

May the peace of Christ guard your heart.
May joy find you, even in small ways.
And may the love of God meet you right where you are—and carry you forward.

Merry Christmas, and blessed Christmas to you and those you love.

With love in Christ,

Do Not Be Afraid

Mon, 22 Dec 2025 15:28:38 GMT

Do Not Be Afraid

Our Advent Joy

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 14:46:57 GMT

Rejoice!

Advent Courage in Ordinary Days

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 14:37:11 GMT

Advent Courage in Ordinary Days

Last week, we talked about opening a window in the heart—letting God’s fresh life move through places that have been shut tight for too long. This week, the readings press the question a little further:

What happens after you let the air in… and God asks you to take a step?

Isaiah brings us to a tense moment in Israel’s story. The pressure is real. The fear is loud. And in the middle of all that, God offers a sign— not as a spectacle, not as a show of force, but as a promise of presence: Emmanuel, God-with-us. The point isn’t that everything suddenly becomes easy. The point is that God refuses to be absent.

Then Matthew turns that same promise toward an ordinary household. Joseph isn’t making national decisions. He’s trying to live a faithful life when his plans fall apart. He’s doing what many of us do when we’re afraid: trying to manage the damage quietly, trying to protect what’s left, trying to keep the pain contained. And that’s where God meets him—with a simple word: Do not be afraid.

It’s striking to me that God speaks to the house of David in two very different places: once to a king under national pressure, and once to a carpenter facing a personal crisis. Same God. Same promise. Different setting. Which means God isn’t only present in the “big” moments of our shared life—God is present in the private places where you’re carrying stress, grief, confusion, or uncertainty.

And that matters right now, because fear is having a moment in our country. You can feel it in the way we talk, the way we label, the way we assume the worst about one another. Fear makes us reach for control. Fear convinces us that compassion is weakness. Fear narrows our world until all we can see is what threatens us.

Advent offers something different: not denial, not escapism, but courage rooted in presence.

If God is with us, then we are not free to harden our hearts. We are not free to dismiss people as problems. We are not free to trade our humanity for the illusion of safety. Emmanuel doesn’t just comfort us—Emmanuel calls us.

So maybe the invitation this week is simple: don’t wait for perfect clarity. Don’t wait until you feel fearless. Ask for the grace to take the next faithful step—at home, at work, in your relationships, and in the way you speak and act in our shared public life.

Because the way God comes to us in Advent is rarely loud. It’s often quiet. Ordinary. Close.

And still—God is with us.

Joy With Its Feet on the Ground

Tue, 09 Dec 2025 14:21:49 GMT

Reflection 3rd Sunday of Advent

Advent has a way of telling the truth. The season of Advent begins with an honest look at what we have been carrying quietly, stubbornly and sometimes without realizing how heavy it has become. That's what makes the joy of this Sunday (Rose Sunday or Gaudete Sunday) so surprising and necessary.

The Third Sunday of Advent brings us to the rose or pink candle in the Advent wreath and also to a word that can feel a bit risky: Rejoice!

Sometimes the word rejoice can feel easier to read than to actually do in our lives. After all, life hasn't slowed down, the world still feels tense, and many people carry real fear about the future. Fear for our families, neighbors, and the kind of society we are becoming. So, if "rejoicing" feels a bit out of reach for you this week, you are not alone.

The good news is that the readings this Sunday don't ask us to pretend otherwise.

Isaiah speaks hope into a world that had so many reasons to be weary. The vision he speaks of is bold: strength returning, fear loosening its grip, and a way opening where there wasn't one before. He is stating a promise. The promise that God is not finished with what looks dry and damaged. And, while Isaiah offers us a broad perspective, our Gospel brings that promised hope into a single human voice.

In the Gospel, we meet a faithful voice asking an honest question from a very difficult space. This fact alone should help steady us since it shows that God makes room for our questions. It also shows that sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is speak truthfully to God. As if that is not enough the Gospel then points us to the hope you can actually see in Mary's song.

God lifts up the lowly.
God feeds the hungry.
God unsettles the arrogance of power.

She describes the God who turns the world right-side up. Which means Advent joy is not only a feeling we chase. It’s a reality we learn to notice. So joy begins to take shape in places like these:

Where dignity is restored.
Where mercy breaks through.
Where weary people find strength again.
Where the vulnerable are protected rather than used.

This is the rejoicing that this Sunday invites us into. So maybe we shouldn't ask ourselves, "Do I feel Joyful?" Maybe we should ask something actually simpler:

Where do I see God refusing to give up on people, and how can I be a part of that answer?

Christ is coming. And part of our preparation is learning to live as though Mary's song is true, no just in our prayers, but in our choices.

Making Room

Mon, 08 Dec 2025 14:39:32 GMT

Sermon, 2nd Sunday of Advent

When Staying Awake Means Making Room

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 14:16:49 GMT

Isaiah 11:1-10, Matthew 3:1-12

In last week's blog, as we began Advent, I invited us to think about what it means to stay awake—to resist the temptation to go spiritually numb in a time when the news is heavy, our schedules are packed, and the future feels uncertain.

We talked about Advent as a season that doesn’t pretend everything is fine, but instead asks us to keep our eyes open for God’s presence and God’s promised future right in the middle of all that feels unsettled.

This week, the question shifts a little.

If Advent has nudged us to stay awake, then the next question is:

Once we’re awake… what do we do with what we see?

Because staying awake means we begin to notice things:

the places in our own lives that feel overcrowded and exhausted,
the strain in our relationships,
the fear and anger that shape our public life,
and yes, the quiet, stubborn signs of hope that keep breaking through in unexpected places.

Advent doesn’t just say, “Notice that.” Advent says, “Now, what needs to change?”

Enter John the Baptist (Ready or Not)

This Sunday, the Church gives us one of Advent’s most jarring voices: John the Baptist out in the wilderness. He doesn’t arrive with gentle background music. He doesn’t say, “Try to be a little nicer; that should do it.” He cries out a word many of us have heard used badly, but which we still need to reclaim:

Repent.

For some, that word has been loaded with shame and fear. It’s been used like a weapon instead of an invitation. If that’s part of your story, I want you to hear this: In Scripture, repentance is not about God rubbing your nose in the past. It’s about God opening a door to a different kind of future.

One simple way to say it is this:

Repentance means making room.

Making Room in a Crowded Season

Think about what your house looks like in December.

We add decorations, squeeze in extra events, rearrange furniture for the tree or the guests, rush from obligation to obligation. By the time we get to Christmas, many of us are over-full and under-nourished. It’s not just our homes that get crowded. Our inner lives do, too.

Our minds and hearts fill up with:

noise and information,
other people’s anger,
our own worries about money, health, family, and the world,
the constant feeling that we’re already behind.

In that kind of season, “staying awake” is only the first step. The second step is to ask:

“What is taking up so much room in me that there’s hardly any space left for God—or for anyone else?”

That’s where this Advent word repent comes in—not as a threat, but as an invitation to clear a little space.

Hope in “Stump” Seasons

Our reading this Sunday from Isaiah paints a powerful picture:

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse…”

A stump is what’s left after something has been cut down. It looks finished: no growth, no future, nothing to look forward to. There are parts of our lives, and parts of our common life as a community and a nation, that feel like that—cut down, worn out, stuck. Advent insists that even there, God is not finished. New life can push up from places we’ve written off. Fresh courage can grow where we thought we were done. A different kind of hope can take root where we only saw a stump. But here’s the rub: new growth needs room.

If everything is packed tight—our calendars, our habits, our assumptions—then even when God is doing something new, we may not have space to notice it, much less nurture it.

From Private Comfort to Shared Space

Last week, I talked about not sleepwalking through this season. This week, I think Advent presses us a little further:

Where do I need to make room—not just for my own comfort, but for someone else’s life?

That could look like:

making room in my schedule to truly listen to someone who is lonely or struggling,
making room in my budget to support the work of compassion and justice,
making room in my imagination for the possibility that those I disagree with are still loved by God,
making room in our church for people who don’t fit a neat mold—and who remind us that the Body of Christ is bigger than our preferences.

This is not about guilt. It’s about alignment—allowing our lives to line up more closely with the heart of Christ, who always seems to be making room: at the table, in his schedule, on the cross, in the tomb, and beyond.

So as we move into the second week of Advent, I’d like to offer a simple question to carry with you:

“Lord, where are you inviting me to make room?”

Not, “How can I fix everything?” Not, “How can I become a perfect Christian by Christmas?” Just: Where is one small place—one habit, one relationship, one corner of my life—where you are asking me to clear a little space? You don’t have to have the answer right away. You don’t have to announce it on social media or explain it to anyone else. Just bring the question with you into prayer, into your day, into this week’s worship.

We’ll explore more of this together on Sunday as we listen to John in the wilderness and Isaiah’s vision of a world made new. For now, in a season that keeps trying to fill every moment and every space, may you hear Advent’s quieter invitation:

Stay awake.

Notice what has taken over the room.

And dare—with God’s help—to make space for a different kind of life to grow.

From the City of Coral Springs

Wed, 26 Nov 2025 14:18:08 GMT

Thank you to the congregation of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin

A Thanksgiving Message

Wed, 26 Nov 2025 14:12:54 GMT

Dear Friends in Christ,

As Thanksgiving approaches, I find myself thinking of you and giving thanks for this parish.

I’m grateful for the ordinary, holy things we share here at St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin: the conversations in front of the church after Mass, the people who quietly get things done, the kindness you show to one another, and the way you reach beyond these walls to care for our neighbors.

I also know this holiday is not simple for everyone.
Some of us will notice the empty chair at the table.
Some are worried about money, health, or strained relationships.
Some look at the news and feel more anxious than grateful.

If that’s where you are this year, please hear this: you are not doing Thanksgiving “wrong.” You don’t have to pretend everything is fine. God meets us in the real place where we actually are, not where we think we should be.

Even in a hard season, sometimes we can still notice small gifts: a phone call from a friend, a shared meal, a quiet moment of rest, the knowledge that this church is praying for you. Those little signs of grace matter. They’re often how God steadies us.

I am deeply thankful for you—for your faith, your questions, your generosity, your willingness to keep showing up. What we do together as a parish, especially for those in need, is one of the clearest ways I see God at work.

My prayer is that, whatever your table looks like this year—full and noisy, simple and quiet, or somewhere in between—you will know that you are loved by God and that you have a place in this community.

A short prayer for you and for our parish:

Gracious God,
thank you for the gifts you place in our lives,
the ones we see and the ones we miss.
Bless every home in our parish this Thanksgiving.
Comfort those who are grieving, strengthen those who are worn out,
and give hope to those who are worried.
Help us turn our gratitude into care for others,
following the way of Jesus.
In his name we pray. Amen.

With love and thanksgiving for you,

Living Today as If God’s Tomorrow Is Breaking In

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 16:36:28 GMT

Reflections on Matthew 24:36–44 and Isaiah 2:1–5

Advent has a way of sneaking up on us.

One day we’re putting away Thanksgiving dishes, finishing leftovers, and trying to remember which container actually has the cranberry sauce. A few days later, the lights in the church are a little dimmer, a single candle is lit, and we hear words like, “Keep awake” and “walk in the light of the Lord.”

It’s a shift you can almost feel in your body. The world outside is rushing toward Christmas — decorations, sales, playlists on repeat — and the Church quietly says, “Slow down. Pay attention. Something holy is drawing near.”

Advent begins there: not with everything neatly resolved, but with a clear-eyed look at the world as it really is — and a stubborn trust that God is not finished with it.

At the heart of this first Sunday is a simple invitation:

Live today as if God’s promised tomorrow is already starting to show through.

Isaiah: A Glimpse of Where God Is Going

Isaiah gives us one of those passages many people know even if they don’t spend much time with the Bible. Nations streaming toward the mountain of the Lord. People laying down weapons. Swords turned into plowshares. Spears turned into pruning hooks. War unlearned.

It’s not just pretty poetry. It’s a description of the world as God intends it to be.

A world where power isn’t used to crush but to protect.

Where learning God’s ways isn’t abstract but shows up in how we treat one another. Where fear and suspicion don’t have the last word.

We don’t wake up to that world yet. The headlines tell a different story. So do many of the situations people in our own community are facing. Advent doesn’t ask us to pretend otherwise. It asks us to hold Isaiah’s vision in one hand and the reality of our world in the other, and to believe that God is still moving history toward that promised peace.

Matthew: Paying Attention in the Middle of Ordinary Life

While Isaiah stretches our imagination toward the future, Jesus speaks about what it means to live in the meantime.

When we hear a line like, “You do not know on what day your Lord is coming,” it can sound like a threat if we’ve been conditioned by fear-based religion. But if we sit with the passage, we notice something: the people Jesus describes are doing very normal things. Eating. Drinking. Working. Getting married. Going about their lives.

The problem isn’t that they’re living their lives. The problem is that they’re so wrapped up in everything that fills the day that they don’t notice what God is doing.

Jesus’ call to “keep awake” isn’t about staying anxious. It’s about living with your eyes and heart open. It’s about believing that God’s presence can show up in the middle of the most ordinary, repetitive, and tired parts of your week.

Why Advent Matters Right Now

You don’t need me to tell you that people are carrying a lot.

Anxious about the future of our country. Worried about finances. Concerned for children and grandchildren. Grieving losses that didn’t get enough time or space. Watching wars and disasters from a distance and wondering what kind of world we’re handing on.

Into that mix, Advent doesn’t offer quick fixes. It offers something deeper: the conviction that God has not walked away.

Isaiah says: This is where God is heading things.

Jesus says: Don’t sleep through it.

Together, they ask us to trust that God’s tomorrow is still on its way and to shape our lives now as if that’s true.

So what does that actually look like between one Sunday and the next?

Most of the time, it doesn’t look spectacular. It looks like small, honest decisions that lean toward the light:

Choosing to listen instead of rushing to argue.
Making room at your table for someone new.
Checking in on a neighbor who’s alone.
Giving, even when it would be easy to say, “We need to hold back.”
Speaking a kind word where sarcasm would be easier.
Refusing to write off whole groups of people because of how they vote, look, or speak.

None of those things will make the evening news. But they matter.

Every time we act in a way that reflects God’s future — peace instead of hostility, generosity instead of hoarding, mercy instead of revenge — we are, in a small way, living as citizens of the world Isaiah describes.

We are letting God’s tomorrow shape how we move through today.

As we light the first candle and hear familiar words again, maybe the question for each of us is this:

Where is God inviting you to wake up a little more to the light?

It might be in how you approach your family.
It might be in your patterns of giving.
It might be in how you treat people who are different from you.
It might be in finally allowing yourself to grieve, to heal, or to ask for help.

Whatever it is, Advent is a good time to listen.

A Different Kind of King for a Wounded World

Sun, 16 Nov 2025 13:00:04 GMT

Christ the King Sunday Reflection

As we approach Christ the King Sunday, the readings from Jeremiah 23:1–6 and Luke 23:33–43 land with striking clarity. They speak into the themes we’ve been wrestling with lately: God’s healing presence in chaotic times, the quiet breaking-in of new creation, persistence in faith, and the call to live courageously and compassionately in a divided world.

Jeremiah doesn’t pull any punches. He names the pain caused by leaders who fracture, scatter, or forget the people they were entrusted to serve. Yet he also holds out a promise—a Shepherd-King who gathers the lost, restores the wounded, brings justice, and leads with a righteousness that lifts rather than crushes.

It’s a vision that feels both ancient and painfully current.

Then Luke takes us to a hill outside Jerusalem where our King appears in the least kingly way imaginable—nailed to a cross, mocked, dismissed, and surrounded by those who only understand power as force. Yet here, in the place of ultimate vulnerability, Christ reveals what real kingship looks like.

The world expects domination; he offers forgiveness.
The world demands proof; he gives mercy.
The world prizes strength; he welcomes a dying man into paradise.

This is a radically different kind of king—one who refuses to rule through fear, threat, or spectacle. One who reigns through compassion, reconciliation, and courage. And honestly, that vision feels especially needed right now.

We live in a moment when so many are anxious about the future—about our community, our nation, and the fractures that seem to widen every day. Jeremiah’s critique of shepherds who scatter hits close to home. We know what it feels like to be wearied by leaders who divide instead of gather, who inflame instead of heal.

Christ the King Sunday calls us to lift our eyes above it all—not to escape the world’s realities, but to see them through the lens of a kingdom that works differently.

A kingdom where mercy is strength.
Where justice is healing.
Where hope is not a wish, but a way of life.

As we prepare to enter Advent, this feast invites us to let Christ’s kind of kingship shape our lives: to resist the pull of fear, to choose compassion over cynicism, to embody reconciliation where others choose division, and to let generosity—of heart, of resources, of time—be the mark of the kingdom we’re part of.

In a wounded world, a different kind of king makes all the difference. And his kingdom is still breaking in—through us, among us, within us.

Sweet Dream Makers Update

Thu, 13 Nov 2025 14:09:24 GMT

Suzanne Broad, Executive Director/Founder offers a heartfealt thanks

We received this email from Sweet Dream Makers, and we gladly share it with you!

Dear Jane,

I hope you're doing well and staying warm in this cooler weather! As the Sweet Dream Makers team is bundling up, I wanted to reach out to share a quick update on the children who will spend this night warm in their beds thanks to St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin Episcopal Church's support of our A Bed of My Own program.

Less than three weeks ago, your congregation generously provided a $5,000 grant — funding we have already fully expended to provide 20 new beds with bedding to children and their families! From sleeping on the floor or another unsafe, unsanitary, or inappropriate condition, these children now have their own comfortable, secure place to lay their heads each night. Even better, each child got to pick out their own bedding — they are sleeping even more soundly because they can cuddle up in their favorite color, character, or sports team.

I am attaching photos of two siblings whose lives your church has changed through your generosity — I hope they warm your heart on this chilly day!

So far this year, we have received requests from 78 Broward County social service agencies to provide 737 beds for children and their families in North Broward alone — and that number grows daily. I truly appreciate your partnership in helping us meet the need — our community's children can stay warm and get the sleep they need to thrive, all thanks to you!

All my best,

Suzanne Broad

Executive Director / Founder

Sweet Dream Makers, Inc.

"A bed for every child is a dream come true."

Extending the Spirit of Care

Wed, 12 Nov 2025 20:35:48 GMT

Supporting Families from the Coral Springs Police Summer Camp

When our parish family at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin partnered with the Coral Springs Police Department Summer Camp earlier this year, we were grateful for the chance to provide snacks and take-home food for the children who filled those summer days with learning, laughter, and community spirit.

Now, as many of those same families face unexpected delays in receiving their SNAP benefits , our church community felt called to extend that same generosity once again. This week, 67 families who attended the Coral Springs Police Summer Camp will each receive an ALDI grocery gift card valued at $300 , a small but meaningful way of saying: you are not forgotten, and you are not alone.

This effort was made possible through the compassion and giving hearts of our parishioners and friends who live out the Gospel through acts of love and service. As we have often said at Sts. MM&M, faith is not only spoken in prayer but embodied in kindness—one neighbor at a time.

Each gift card will be accompanied by a pastoral letter reminding families that this help comes with no conditions or expectations—just our prayers, our care, and an open invitation to visit us whenever they wish. Whether for worship, a community event, or simply a moment of peace, our doors are always open.

In times of uncertainty, generosity becomes a language of hope. Together, we are grateful to serve, to share, and to be part of a community where compassion continues to grow.

“Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” – 1 John 3:18

Seeds of a New Creation

Mon, 10 Nov 2025 14:33:17 GMT

Harvest Sunday Reflection – Isaiah 65:17–25, Luke 21:5–19

Harvest is a season of both gratitude and trust. We give thanks for what has grown — for every act of faith that has borne fruit — but we also look ahead, believing that God is still planting something new among us.

Isaiah’s words echo across the centuries: “For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth.” Even in times of uncertainty, God’s work of renewal never stops. The old gives way, and something new begins to take shape — often long before we can see it.

Jesus reminds us that even when the world trembles, our faith endures. What looks like endings can become the soil for God’s next beginning.

At Sts. Mary Magdalene & Martin, we live in that same tension between harvest and hope. We give thanks for the ministries that have touched lives this year — the food shared, the children nurtured, the partnerships strengthened — and we also dream about what God will grow next.

Our estimates of giving are not just numbers on a page. They are seeds of faith — promises that we believe in the future God is creating. Every act of generosity helps plant something holy: compassion, community, and hope.

This Harvest Sunday, may we celebrate what God has done, and trust what God is still building — in us, through us, and among us.

Presence Not Appearance

Mon, 10 Nov 2025 14:29:06 GMT

Sermon, Sunday, November 9, 2025

The Gospel we Don't Want to Hear

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 16:06:48 GMT

Sermon for All Saints Transferred, Sunday, November 2, 2025

When Glory Fades, Presence Remains

Tue, 04 Nov 2025 14:13:02 GMT

Based on Haggai 1:15b–2:9 and Luke 20:27–38

Sometimes life feels like standing in the ruins of something that used to be beautiful.
That’s where God’s people were in Haggai’s time—staring at the half-built temple, remembering what once was, and wondering if the best days of faith were behind them.

But God’s message wasn’t about rebuilding the gold or the grandeur.
It was simply this:

“Take courage. My Spirit abides among you.”

The glory wasn’t in the appearance of the temple—it was in the presence of God who refused to leave them.

And centuries later, Jesus said something very similar to a group of skeptics trying to trap him with questions about life after death:

“God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.”

Even when things look broken—or gone—God is still at work. The presence that fills our lives doesn’t fade when the shine wears off. It abides. It endures.

Maybe that’s the word we need right now—in our homes, our communities, even in our nation. When we look at the fractures around us, it’s easy to get discouraged. But God’s promise is still true: the real glory isn’t in what we’ve lost; it’s in the love and courage that rise among us when we choose to keep building, forgiving, and showing up.

So take courage. God’s Spirit abides among us still.

The Saints we Don't Expect

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 13:50:38 GMT

- and the message we don't want to hear

This Sunday’s gospel isn’t the kind of message most of us want to hear. Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are you when life goes smoothly.” Instead, he blesses the poor, the hungry, the grieving, and the rejected. It’s an upside-down vision of holiness that challenges our assumptions about what it means to live a blessed life.

On All Saints and All Souls Sunday, we remember that the saints weren’t perfect people—they were people who kept showing up, who chose love over indifference, who forgave when it hurt, and who trusted that God’s grace was stronger than their failings. Some of those saints once sat right here in our pews. Their love still lingers in this place, in our music, our ministries, and our memories.

Jesus’ words today remind us that sainthood isn’t reserved for the few—it’s the calling of every baptized person. To be “blessed” is to live open-heartedly in a world that often rewards the opposite. It’s to hunger for justice, to care deeply, to love generously, and to keep believing that compassion can still change the world.

“Sainthood isn’t about being remembered—it’s about remembering who we belong to.”

As we light candles and say names this week, may we also listen again to the uncomfortable blessing of Jesus. Because it’s there—in the places we least expect—that heaven meets earth, and God’s love is made visible through us.

Soft Soil Again

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 13:20:10 GMT

The Pharisee does everything right by the book, yet misses the heart of the relationship. The tax collector has nothing to show, yet somehow finds his way to grace.

When the Ground Feels Dry

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 15:27:14 GMT

Joel 2:23-32

There are seasons in life when everything feels parched.

We pray, we wait, and we wonder if anything good can still grow.

Joel knew something about that kind of season. His people had just lived through devastation — years of loss, famine, and fear. And yet, right there in the middle of the rubble, God speaks a promise:

“Be glad and rejoice… for the LORD has given the early rain for your vindication.
I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.” (Joel 2:23, 25)

It’s one of the most tender promises in all of Scripture — that what has been lost is not beyond redemption. But notice this: Joel doesn’t speak to a people who have already been delivered. He speaks in the midst of their rebuilding. The rain has just begun to fall. The ground is only starting to soften again.

That’s where faith often lives — somewhere between drought and harvest.

In that fragile middle space, Joel reminds us that God’s Spirit is still moving. The rain of grace still falls — not because we’ve earned it, but because love refuses to give up on us.

So if your soul feels dry, if the world feels weary, take heart. Restoration doesn’t always arrive as a sudden flood. Sometimes it comes as a slow, steady rain — softening the soil, drop by drop, until new life surprises you.

The invitation is simple: keep your heart open to the rain.

What are the “locust years” in your life that you long for God to restore?

Grace doesn’t erase the past — it transforms it. Even dry ground can sing again.

Written on our Hearts

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 14:03:28 GMT

Sermon, Sunday October 19, 2025

When God Seems Silent

Mon, 13 Oct 2025 14:20:54 GMT

Jeremiah 31:27–34 | Luke 18:1–8

There are seasons when prayer feels like knocking on a door that never opens. We ask, we wait, and the silence lingers — and somewhere in that waiting, doubt begins to whisper: Is anyone listening?

The prophet Jeremiah speaks to that ache with a surprising promise: that God’s covenant — God’s truth, mercy, and love — is not written on stone but on our hearts. In other words, even when we can’t see change on the outside, God may be doing sacred work on the inside.

And in the Gospel of Luke, a widow keeps returning to an unresponsive judge, asking for justice again and again. She doesn’t quit, not because it’s easy, but because hope is still alive in her. She reminds us that faith isn’t about getting what we want when we want it — it’s about trusting that God is still writing our story, even in the silence.

So if the waiting feels long, if the answers haven’t come, take heart.

The silence of God is not absence. It’s authorship.

Your story is still being written — line by line, with grace as the ink.

The "Gospel" of the 10th Leper

Mon, 13 Oct 2025 14:00:23 GMT

Sermon o Luke 17:11-19

A Living Gospel of Generosity

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 14:25:26 GMT

$75,000 in Community Grants Awarded

This past week, something holy happened.

In a world where headlines often center around division and scarcity, the Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin chose to amplify a different kind of story: one of abundance, compassion, and shared hope. Our grant committee has awawrded $75,000 in grants to nonprofit organizations that are quietly—and powerfully—transforming lives across Broward County. These grants will be disbursed at our 5th Annual "Fundsgiving" Gala on October 24th.

From mobile showers for the unsheltered to beds for children sleeping on floors, from grief therapy with miniature horses to emergency help for young mothers, these organizations are boots-on-the-ground ministers of mercy. Each one touches a different corner of human need. Each one reminds us that love, when put into action, looks like diapers and dignity, tutoring and toothpaste, job training and justice.

And the truly beautiful part? These grants aren't charity. They are a partnership. They are the church being Church—not just within stained glass walls, but out where Christ himself walked: among the poor, the grieving, the marginalized.

We are grateful for our generous sponsors, parishioners, and volunteers whose commitment made this possible. But even more so, we are grateful for the trust placed in us by the organizations we support. You remind us that when we pool our resources, share our table, and lean into courageous discipleship, the Gospel gets a heartbeat.

Let’s keep it beating strong.

Our 2025 Grant Recipients ( more information can be found on our Grants Page )

Children’s Aid Fund - $10,000
Christmas in July - $6,500
Coral Springs Community Chest - $5,000
Healthy Mothers Healthy Babies - $10,000
Junior Achievement - $5,000
Showering Love - $13,500
SOS Children’s Village - $5,000
Sweet Dream Makers - $5,000
Tomorrow’s Rainbow - $10,000
Women in Distress - $5,000

Singing God's Song

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 14:00:35 GMT

Faith in Exile

When Healing Meets Gratitude

Mon, 06 Oct 2025 13:45:45 GMT

Luke 17:11-19

There’s a moment in the Gospel this Sunday that’s easy to miss if you read too fast. Ten people are healed by Jesus, but only one stops, turns around, and comes back. One pauses long enough to notice that something holy has happened.

And that small act — turning back — might be one of the most profound gestures in all of Scripture.

Because healing, by itself, isn’t the end of the story. Healing changes your circumstance. Gratitude changes you.

The one who returned didn’t just get his life back — he found a new kind of life altogether. Gratitude became the doorway to wholeness.

I wonder how often we miss that same invitation. How often do we move from problem to solution, from need to answer, without ever pausing to say, “Wait — that was grace”?

When we slow down to recognize the good, to name the gift, to give thanks — we step into a deeper kind of faith. We become participants, not just recipients.

Maybe that’s what true healing looks like: not just the fixing of what was broken, but the awakening of a heart that can see the Giver behind the gift.

So this week, pause for a moment. Look at what’s been made whole in your life — not perfect, not finished, but healing as it goes. And if you feel the tug to turn back, to whisper “thank you,” don’t ignore it. That’s where grace is waiting.

Mustard Seed Faith

Mon, 29 Sep 2025 13:36:47 GMT

Luke 17:5-10

In this Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 17:5–6), the disciples cry out: “Increase our faith!” It’s such an honest prayer. They feel overwhelmed and unsure if they have what it takes to follow Jesus. Maybe you’ve prayed the same prayer yourself.

Jesus answers in a surprising way: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed…” He doesn’t ask for a mountain of faith. He points to something so small it could slip between your fingers.

That’s good news. Most of us don’t walk around with unshakable faith. We have days when prayers are short, trust feels thin, or courage is hard to come by. And yet Jesus says: even the smallest bit of faith is enough when it rests in God’s hands.

Mustard-seed faith doesn’t always look dramatic. It shows up in the ordinary:

Choosing kindness when anger feels easier.
Standing with the vulnerable because they are our neighbors.
Saying one prayer when words are hard to find.
Sharing a meal with someone who needs company.
Making one phone call to check in on a friend.

These things may feel small in the moment, but they take root. And roots, even tiny ones, can break through hard ground. Over time, that quiet faith becomes the witness that sustains families, communities, and even churches.

Maybe that’s why Jesus points us to the mustard seed. Because in God’s kingdom, it’s not about being impressive. It’s about being faithful in the next small step, trusting that God will bring the growth.

So maybe our prayer this week isn’t “Lord, give me more faith.” Maybe it’s simply: “Lord, help me trust you with the faith I already have.” Because God can do more with a seed than we can imagine.

Closing the Chasm

Mon, 29 Sep 2025 13:26:52 GMT

Sunday, Sept. 28th, 2025

The People we Stop Seeing

Mon, 22 Sep 2025 14:38:49 GMT

Luke 16:19-31

I t’s strange how easy it is to stop noticing things. The corner you drive by every morning without thinking. The person who always seems to be in the same spot. Even a neighbor you wave to out of habit, but never really pause to talk with anymore.

In this week’s Gospel, Jesus tells a story where that kind of blindness makes all the difference. A poor man named Lazarus lies at the gate of a wealthy man. He’s hungry, covered with sores, longing for scraps of bread. And the wealthy man? He walks past him every day. He eats, he enjoys his life, but he never really sees Lazarus. Over time, a great chasm grows between them.

It’s a hard truth: our biggest spiritual danger isn’t always hatred or cruelty. Sometimes it’s indifference. The slow habit of walking past. The choice not to see.

So what if discipleship began with attention? What if one of the holiest things we can do is open our eyes to the people right in front of us?

This week, I invite you to pause and ask yourself:

Who is sitting at the “gate” of my life?
Who have I stopped noticing?
What would it look like to truly see them again?

Sometimes the first act of love is as simple as paying attention. And sometimes that’s where grace begins.

Sermon, Called and Reshaped

Wed, 17 Sep 2025 15:24:36 GMT

Jeremiah 18:1–11; Luke 14:25–33

A Faithful Vision of Just and Inclusive Patriotism

Tue, 16 Sep 2025 14:58:28 GMT

A Faithful Vision of Just and Inclusive Patriotism

Desplácese hasta la parte inferior de la página para ver la versión en español.

Patriotism isn’t about who can wave the biggest flag or shout the loudest. It isn’t found in slogans or bumper stickers. True patriotism is love — not the sentimental kind that avoids hard truths, but the kind that speaks the truth because it loves. The kind of love that’s willing to wrestle with history, to take responsibility, to say, “We can be better — because we are meant for more.”

This kind of love is not new. It runs deep in our nation’s story — in the footsteps of those who marched, who served, who spoke out and knelt down and stood firm so that freedom might grow wider, deeper, and more real for everyone.

As Episcopalians, we know something about covenant. At every baptism, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to strive for justice and peace, and to respect the dignity of every human being. These aren’t just poetic words in the Prayer Book . They are the heart of our faith. They guide how we pray, how we vote, how we lead, how we speak, how we live.

And we need them now more than ever.

Our country’s story is beautiful and broken. We’ve proclaimed liberty while enslaving others. We’ve declared equality while excluding women, Indigenous peoples, and immigrants. And yet, even in our deepest failings, God has never stopped calling us back.

Back through the voices of prophets and peacemakers — Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., and so many unnamed saints. People who called this nation to look in the mirror and remember its soul.

Abraham Lincoln once said we must act “with malice toward none, with charity for all.” That’s not weakness. That’s courage. The courage to love your country enough to tell it the truth. The courage to love your neighbor enough to speak when it would be easier to stay silent. The courage to believe that grace still belongs in public life.

Jesus said, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32). And he taught that greatness doesn’t come from power or prestige, but from service (Mark 9:35). He gave us a commandment that sums up everything else: “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:31).

But love is not passive. It takes risks. It gets involved. It pays attention.

And right now, we are in a dangerous place.

When truth is twisted, when lies are normalized, when leaders choose self-interest over the common good — that is not patriotism. That is idolatry.

When immigrants are blamed for our problems — though our own ancestors once arrived here with nothing but hope — that is not patriotism. That is betrayal.

When LGBTQ+ people, people of color, people of other faiths or no faith at all are scapegoated or erased — that is not patriotism. That is sin.

And here is the most sobering truth of all: what no foreign enemy has ever done to us, we are doing to ourselves. No outside force can destroy us like we can — by turning neighbor against neighbor, by giving up on truth, by abandoning the vulnerable.

Jesus warned us: “Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every household divided against itself will not stand” (Matthew 12:25). And right now, our house is trembling.

We also need to name what’s happening in our politics — the demonization of anyone who dares to disagree. We've stopped seeing each other as fellow citizens and started seeing enemies. We've replaced conversation with contempt.

But the Episcopal Church teaches another way — the via media, the “middle way.” Not a shallow compromise, but a courageous commitment to relationship, to listening, to honoring the image of God in every person. Even those we disagree with. Especially those we disagree with.

True patriotism isn’t about picking a side. It’s about standing in the breach. It’s about building something better, not burning bridges behind us. It’s about protecting the sacred worth of every person God has made.

Dr. King once said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” But that arc doesn’t bend on its own. It bends because people of faith put their hands on it. It bends because people are willing to stand up and speak out — not in hate, but in hope.

True patriots don’t let their nation decay from the inside. They don’t stand by when injustice flourishes. They don’t retreat into comfort when others are suffering. They don’t hoard power while others go unheard.

Instead, they defend the widow, the orphan, the refugee. They refuse to dehumanize. They refuse to give up. They choose the kind of love that does the hard work.

Because America’s strength lies not in fear, but in freedom. Not in sameness, but in sacred diversity. Not in domination, but in dignity.

This is a moment of decision.

Will we love this country enough to tell it the truth? Will we love our neighbors enough to stand beside them — especially when it costs us? Will we love God enough to let that love shape not just our private prayers, but our public lives?

As Episcopalians, we believe faith doesn’t end at the church door. It begins there. We believe the Eucharist is not a hiding place — it’s fuel for the work ahead. Every time we share the bread and the wine, we’re sent back out into the world: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” That peace is not passive. That love is not safe. That service is not small.

This is what it means to be a Christian.

This is what it means to be an Episcopalian.

This is what it means to be an American.

And this — this is the kind of patriotism our nation needs today.

Footnotes

Abraham Lincoln, Second Inaugural Address , March 4, 1865.
Martin Luther King Jr., Remaining Awake Through a Great Revolution , March 31, 1968.
The Book of Common Prayer , The Baptismal Covenant, pp. 304–305.
The Book of Common Prayer , The Holy Eucharist: Rite II, pp. 355–366.

Una visión fiel de un patriotismo justo e inclusivo

El patriotismo no se trata de quién puede agitar la bandera más grande o gritar más fuerte. No se encuentra en los eslóganes ni en las calcomanías de los autos. El verdadero patriotismo es amor —no el amor sentimental que evita las verdades difíciles, sino el amor que habla la verdad precisamente porque ama. El tipo de amor que está dispuesto a luchar con la historia, a asumir responsabilidad, a decir: “Podemos ser mejores —porque fuimos creados para más.”

Este tipo de amor no es nuevo. Esta arraigado profundamente en la historia de nuestra nación —en las huellas de quienes marcharon, sirvieron, alzaron la voz, se arrodillaron y se mantuvieron firmes para que la libertad creciera más amplia, más profunda y más real para todos.

Como episcopales, sabemos algo acerca de los pactos. En cada bautismo, prometemos buscar y servir a Cristo en todas las personas, esforzarnos por la justicia y la paz, y respetar la dignidad de todo ser humano. Estas no son simplemente palabras poéticas del Libro de Oración Común. Son el corazón de nuestra fe. Guían cómo oramos, cómo votamos, cómo lideramos, cómo hablamos, cómo vivimos.

Y las necesitamos ahora más que nunca.

La historia de nuestro país es hermosa y contradictoria. Hemos proclamado libertad mientras esclavizábamos a otros. Hemos declarado igualdad mientras excluíamos a mujeres, pueblos indígenas e inmigrantes. Y sin embargo, incluso en nuestros fracasos más profundos, Dios nunca ha dejado de llamarnos de regreso.

Llamados de regreso a través de las voces de profetas y pacificadores —Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., y tantos santos sin nombre. Personas que llamaron a esta nación a mirarse en el espejo y recordar su alma.

Abraham Lincoln dijo una vez que debemos actuar “sin malicia hacia nadie, con caridad para todos.” Eso no es debilidad. Eso es valentía. La valentía de amar lo suficiente a tu país como para decirle la verdad. La valentía de amar lo suficiente a tu prójimo como para hablar cuando sería más fácil quedarse en silencio. La valentía de creer que la gracia todavía pertenece a la vida pública.

Jesús dijo: “La verdad los hará libres” (Juan 8:32). Y enseñó que la grandeza no viene del poder o el prestigio, sino del servicio (Marcos 9:35). Nos dio un mandamiento que resume todo lo demás: “Ama a tu prójimo como a ti mismo” (Marcos 12:31).

Pero el amor no es pasivo. Asume riesgos. Se involucra. Presta atención.

Y ahora mismo, estamos en un momento peligroso.

Cuando la verdad se distorsiona, cuando las mentiras se normalizan, cuando los líderes eligen el interés propio sobre el bien común —eso no es patriotismo. Eso es idolatría.

Cuando se culpa a los inmigrantes de nuestros problemas —aunque nuestros propios antepasados una vez llegaron aquí con nada más que esperanza— eso no es patriotismo. Eso es traición.

Cuando las personas LGBTQ+, las personas de color, las personas de otras religiones o de ninguna fe son convertidas en chivos expiatorios o borradas —eso no es patriotismo. Eso es pecado.

Y aquí está la verdad más dura de todas: lo que ningún enemigo extranjero ha hecho jamás contra nosotros, lo estamos haciendo nosotros mismos. Ninguna fuerza externa puede destruirnos tanto como lo hacemos nosotros —poniendo vecino contra vecino, renunciando a la verdad, abandonando a los vulnerables.

Jesús nos advirtió: “Todo reino dividido contra sí mismo quedará asolado, y toda casa dividida contra sí misma no podrá mantenerse en pie” (Mateo 12:25). Y ahora mismo, nuestra casa está temblando.

También necesitamos nombrar lo que está ocurriendo en nuestra política —la demonización de cualquiera que se atreva a disentir. Hemos dejado de vernos como conciudadanos y hemos comenzado a ver enemigos. Hemos reemplazado la conversación con el desprecio.

Pero la Iglesia Episcopal enseña otro camino —la via media, el “camino medio.” No un compromiso superficial, sino un compromiso valiente con la relación, con la escucha, con honrar la imagen de Dios en cada persona. Incluso en quienes no estamos de acuerdo. Especialmente en quienes no estamos de acuerdo.

El verdadero patriotismo no se trata de elegir un bando. Se trata de mantenerse en la brecha. Se trata de construir algo mejor, no de quemar puentes detrás de nosotros. Se trata de proteger el valor sagrado de cada persona creada por Dios.

El Dr. King dijo una vez: “El arco del universo moral es largo, pero se inclina hacia la justicia.” Pero ese arco no se dobla solo. Se dobla porque personas de fe ponen sus manos en él. Se dobla porque personas están dispuestas a ponerse de pie y alzar la voz —no con odio, sino con esperanza.

Los verdaderos patriotas no permiten que su nación se pudra desde dentro. No se quedan de brazos cruzados cuando florece la injusticia. No se refugian en la comodidad mientras otros sufren. No acaparan el poder mientras otros no son escuchados.

En cambio, defienden a la viuda, al huérfano, al refugiado. Se niegan a deshumanizar. Se niegan a rendirse. Eligen el tipo de amor que hace el trabajo difícil.

Porque la fortaleza de Estados Unidos no está en el miedo, sino en la libertad. No en la uniformidad, sino en la sagrada diversidad. No en la dominación, sino en la dignidad.

Este es un momento de decisión.

¿Amaremos lo suficiente a este país como para decirle la verdad? ¿Amaremos lo suficiente a nuestros vecinos como para ponernos a su lado —especialmente cuando nos cueste? ¿Amaremos lo suficiente a Dios como para dejar que ese amor moldee no solo nuestras oraciones privadas, sino también nuestra vida pública?

Como episcopales, creemos que la fe no termina en la puerta de la iglesia. Allí comienza. Creemos que la Eucaristía no es un escondite —es combustible para la misión que viene. Cada vez que compartimos el pan y el vino, somos enviados de nuevo al mundo: “Vayan en paz para amar y servir al Señor.” Esa paz no es pasiva. Ese amor no es seguro. Ese servicio no es pequeño.

Esto es lo que significa ser cristiano.

Esto es lo que significa ser episcopal.

Esto es lo que significa ser estadounidense.

Y esto —esto es el tipo de patriotismo que nuestra nación necesita hoy.

Notas
• Abraham Lincoln, Segundo discurso inaugural, 4 de marzo de 1865.
• Martin Luther King Jr., Permaneciendo despiertos durante una gran revolución, 31 de marzo de 1968.
• El Libro de Oración Común, El Pacto Bautismal, pp. 224–225
• El Libro de Oración Común, La Santa Eucaristía: Rito II, pp. 277-304.

Assassination of Charlie Kirk

Thu, 11 Sep 2025 17:44:07 GMT

A Pastoral Letter

Beloved in Christ,

Our nation grieves in the wake of the assassination of Charlie Kirk. However we may differ politically, we must first speak with compassion: a life has been taken, and a family is left in sorrow. We hold them in prayer, asking God’s mercy and comfort to surround all who mourn.

At the same time, we cannot ignore the climate that gives rise to such violence. Words matter. Again and again, we have heard rhetoric—on the right and on the left—that diminishes human dignity. Too often opponents are treated as enemies, or dismissed as beyond redemption. Too often those who know better choose silence, hoping the storm will pass. Violence does not erupt out of nowhere; it is stoked by words and by the refusal to speak against them.

As Christians, we know the cross is not a weapon but a sign of sacrificial love. Christ came not to destroy but to reconcile. As citizens, we also know our country at its best calls us to uphold liberty, justice, and the dignity of every person. These are not competing truths but complementary ones.

So I urge us to take this moment not to cast blame outward, but to look within. What words have we spoken—or left unspoken—that have added to the bitterness? Where have we chosen contempt over compassion, fear over trust? And how might we now speak and act in ways that protect life and honor the image of God in one another?

We cannot change the past, but we can choose another way forward. Christ is our peace, breaking down every dividing wall. Let us be bold enough to name what is wrong, gentle enough to listen, and steadfast enough to keep walking together.

In Christ's Love,

Fr. Lee+

Seeking the Lost

Wed, 10 Sep 2025 14:32:41 GMT

Confronting the Storm in Our Times

In this week’s reflection, we draw from Jeremiah 4 and Luke 15 to explore the themes of returning and seeking. Yet we can’t ignore the backdrop of what’s happening in our own nation. Just as the prophet Jeremiah spoke to a people facing turmoil, and Jesus told parables to those longing for hope, we too are living in a time that calls us to pay attention.

Jeremiah’s imagery of a scorching wind and a landscape in disarray isn’t just an ancient warning. It resonates with the challenges we see today—political divides, social unrest, and a sense of moral confusion. We’re reminded that ignoring the storms around us—whether they be injustices, inequities, or the cries of those on the margins—only makes us more lost. This is a call to face the reality of our times with honesty and courage.

In the midst of this, Luke’s Gospel offers a counterbalance: the image of a God who never stops searching for those who are lost. In our current landscape, where many feel unheard or left behind, this is a powerful reminder of our calling as people of faith. We are invited to be part of that search, to reach out with compassion to the immigrant, the marginalized, the ones who are caught in the storms of our societal upheaval.

So as we reflect on these readings and on the state of our nation, we’re called to a dual response. First, to acknowledge the storms and not shy away from them. And second, to actively participate in God’s work of seeking out and restoring those who are lost. In this way, our faith becomes not just a refuge but a call to action—a way to bring hope and healing into a world that needs it more than ever.

Sunday, August 31, 2025 Sermon

Mon, 08 Sep 2025 12:56:58 GMT

Sunday, August 31, 2025

What cracked cistern are you still carrying? Where do you feel the water slipping away? And what would it look like — in your life, this week — to set it down, and to live instead from the fountain of God’s living water?

Called and Reshaped

Wed, 03 Sep 2025 13:12:07 GMT

Jeremiah 18:1–11; Luke 14:25–33

Two weeks ago, we stood with a woman Jesus called and straightened after eighteen long years of being bent down. Last week, we heard Jeremiah’s warning about cracked cisterns that can’t hold water and remembered that Christ re-centers us at God’s table, where our place is already secure.

This Sunday, Jeremiah takes us to the potter’s house. The wheel turns, the clay collapses, and yet the potter does not throw it away. He begins again. He reshapes it.

Jesus, meanwhile, tells the crowds that discipleship comes at a cost — that following him means loosening our grip on everything else and allowing ourselves to be remade.

It is not easy to be reshaped. It means yielding to hands that press and stretch, and it means facing the cracks in our lives and in our nation. But it also means trusting that God is not finished with us — that what looks broken can be filled with grace and made new.

As we gather this Sunday, we’ll reflect on what it means to be called and reshaped : not discarded when we fail, not left to our own strength, but remade in God’s hands to hold living water for a thirsty world.

Yes, We are a Woke Church

Mon, 25 Aug 2025 13:53:21 GMT

Awake, Alive, Hopeful

The word “woke” has been twisted into an insult in our current culture wars. But at its root, it simply means to be awake—to see clearly, to notice injustice, and to act with compassion. And when we open the Bible, we find that being awake to God’s truth is not optional—it’s essential. This Sunday’s readings call us to be a woke Church because that is what faithfulness to God looks like.

Jeremiah 2:4–13 – Trading Living Water for Empty Cisterns

Through Jeremiah, God laments that the people have abandoned the fountain of living water for cracked cisterns that hold no water. They turned from justice and covenant love to idols that could never satisfy.

We see the same temptation today. Our nation trades compassion for cruelty at the border. We trade truth for revisionist history that tries to erase the voices of Black and Brown people. We trade love for policies that exclude LGBTQ+ children of God. These are cracked cisterns—systems that cannot sustain life.

But God calls us back. To be a woke Church is to reject those idols and cling again to the living water of Christ—justice, mercy, and love that never run dry.

Psalm 81:1, 10–16 – Listen to God’s Voice

The psalm is a song of joy and a plea: “But my people did not listen to my voice.” God longs for a people who are attentive and awake.

We live in a noisy world—shouting matches on social media, endless distractions, leaders who encourage us to close our ears to suffering. Yet God still speaks. God speaks through the cries of the hungry, through the voices of the oppressed, through the groans of creation itself.

A woke Church listens. We listen to God’s voice in prayer and Scripture, and we listen to our neighbors who have been silenced or ignored. And when we listen—God promises joy, strength, and life.

Hebrews 13:1–8, 15–16 – Love in Action

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers… Remember those in prison, as though you were in prison with them.”

This is what it means to be awake: to let our faith take flesh in love. Hebrews reminds us that worship is not just what we do in church on Sunday—it is how we live Monday through Saturday. It is how we treat the stranger, the imprisoned, the poor.

In an age where division and fear are weaponized, we proclaim Christ “the same yesterday and today and forever.” And because Christ is faithful, we can be bold in our love—confident that nothing we do in compassion is wasted.

Luke 14:1, 7–14 – Rewriting the Guest List

At a Pharisee’s banquet, Jesus challenges the seating chart and the guest list. Don’t scramble for honor, and don’t invite only those who can repay you. Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.

That is as radical now as it was then. Our culture tells us to build circles that protect our status and keep us comfortable. Jesus tells us to do the opposite—to widen the table until all are fed.

A woke Church doesn’t apologize for this. We don’t apologize for welcoming LGBTQ+ people. We don’t apologize for marching with immigrants. We don’t apologize for standing against racism, antisemitism, or Islamophobia. We don’t apologize for practicing the upside-down hospitality of Jesus Christ.

Awake, Alive, and Hopeful

To be woke is to be awake to God’s living presence and alive to God’s mission in the world. It means:

Rejecting empty idols that harm God’s children (Jeremiah)

Listening for God’s voice and the cries of the oppressed (Psalm 81)

Practicing radical love and solidarity every day (Hebrews)

Throwing open our tables with Christ-like hospitality (Luke 14)

Yes, we are a woke Church—not because it is trendy, but because it is faithful. And here is the good news: God has not given up on us. Even when we falter, even when the world mocks or resists, Christ is still at work.

So we stay awake. We stay hopeful. We keep our eyes open to injustice and our hearts open to love. Because a woke Church is nothing less than a faithful Church—awake, alive, and following Jesus into the world.

Fish Fry, Saturday, Sept. 20th 3-8pm

Wed, 20 Aug 2025 17:09:44 GMT

The Brotherhood of St. Andrew's Fish Fry

New Paragraph

When God Says

Mon, 18 Aug 2025 13:01:28 GMT

Do not say I am Only

There’s a phrase that shows up in our minds more often than we realize:

I’m only…

’m only one person.
I’m only a parent trying to hold my family together.
I’m only too young… or too old… or too busy.
I’m only someone with a lot of doubts.

We all have our “I’m only” moments—those times we quietly decide we’re not qualified, not ready, or not enough to do what’s in front of us.

This Sunday’s scripture readings introduce us to two people who might have agreed with that feeling: a young Jeremiah who insists he’s too inexperienced to be called by God, and a woman who’s been bent over for eighteen years—likely told by others, and maybe by herself, that her best days were behind her.

But in both stories, God’s response is the same: limitations don’t get the last word.

Sometimes the things that hold us back are real challenges. Sometimes they’re excuses that feel safer than risking something new. But either way, the God who calls, the Christ who frees, and the Spirit who sends us is not deterred by our lists of reasons why we “can’t.”

This week, I invite you to start listening for the “I’m only” statements in your own life. And when you hear them—pause and remember—those aren’t the words God uses about you.

On Sunday, we’ll dig deeper into what it means to live as people who are both called and set free—and what that can look like not just for our church’s ministry, but for your everyday life.

Why a Church Like Ours Matters More Than Ever

Wed, 13 Aug 2025 12:00:05 GMT

Following Jesus in Truth, Love, and Courage

Why a Church Like Ours Matters More Than Ever

In recent years, it has become harder to ignore the rise of voices claiming to speak for Christianity while preaching something far removed from the life and teachings of Jesus. Christian nationalism, prosperity gospel, and other distortions have turned the Good News into a weapon of division, power, and fear. These movements confuse faith with political ideology, equate spiritual worth with material success, and measure holiness by exclusion rather than compassion.

But that is not the Gospel. That is not the Jesus who healed the sick, welcomed the stranger, and washed His disciples’ feet.

At The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin , we believe in a different way—the way of Christ who calls us to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love our neighbor as ourselves. This means standing against any teaching or ideology that uses God’s name to oppress, demean, or harm others. It also means actively building a community where every person—no matter their race, gender, sexuality, background, or political affiliation—is welcomed as a beloved child of God.

Why It Matters to Belong

It’s one thing to privately reject false teachings. It’s another to actively live out the truth. Faith is not meant to be practiced in isolation. The early church grew because followers of Jesus gathered together, supported one another, and served the world in His name.

Being part of a church like ours matters because:

We grow together in truth. In worship, study, and prayer, we keep returning to the words and example of Jesus—not the slogans of a political movement.
We serve together in love. Our ministries feed the hungry, support the vulnerable, and stand alongside those who are marginalized.
We stand together in courage. It is easier to live out your faith with a community that encourages you to resist hatred, greed, and fear.
We find hope together. In a fractured world, we need spaces where grace is still the final word.

If you have ever felt disillusioned by what you’ve heard called “Christianity” in the news or online, you are not alone. If you long for a church that takes Jesus seriously—His compassion, His humility, His radical inclusiveness—you will find kindred spirits here.

We are not perfect. But we are committed to the hard, joyful, transformative work of following Christ in a way that heals instead of harms, builds up instead of tears down, and embodies love instead of fear.

Come and see. Come and belong. Come and be part of a faith that looks like Jesus.

Kindled by Christ's Fire

Mon, 11 Aug 2025 13:27:34 GMT

Luke 12:49-56

Jesus said, "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided:

father against son
and son against father,

mother against daughter
and daughter against mother,

mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law
and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law."

He also said to the crowds, "When you see a cloud rising in the west, you immediately say, `It is going to rain'; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, `There will be scorching heat'; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?"

In recent weeks, we’ve talked about the challenge of following Jesus — letting go of what weighs us down, returning to the heart of God, and finding the courage to live out our discipleship in the world. This Sunday’s Gospel takes that conversation to the next level.

Jesus says, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” These are not the gentle, soothing words we might expect. Instead, they remind us that the way of Christ is not about maintaining comfort, but about igniting transformation. Fire changes everything it touches. It purifies, refines, and often disrupts the peace we’ve built for ourselves.

Following Jesus means allowing that refining fire to touch our lives — burning away what keeps us from loving God and neighbor fully. Sometimes that process causes division, even within our families and communities. Not because Christ delights in conflict, but because His kingdom calls us to values and priorities that will not always match the world’s.

The question for us is simple, but not easy: Do we want peace at any price, or do we want the peace of Christ — the peace that comes after the refining, after the transformation, after the fire?

This week, may we invite Christ’s fire to burn within us, not to destroy, but to make us new.

An Evening of Inspiration — Beaux Arts Chamber Ensemble Live at Our Church!

Thu, 07 Aug 2025 15:13:30 GMT

An Evening of Inspiration — Beaux Arts Chamber Ensemble Live at Our Church!

�� An Evening of Inspiration — Beaux Arts Chamber Ensemble Live at Our Church!

Join us for a night of breathtaking music and community fellowship!

We are honored to host the acclaimed Beaux Arts Chamber Ensemble in concert on Saturday, September 6, 2025, at 7:00 PM right here at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin .

This talented trio of violin, cello, and piano will perform a rich and engaging program of piano trios, including:

Schubert’s Nocturno – a deeply moving and lyrical masterpiece
Mendelssohn’s Piano Trio in D Minor, Op. 49 – known for its passion and melodic beauty
Paul Schoenfield’s Café Music – a lively fusion of jazz, klezmer, and classical styles

Whether you're a longtime lover of classical music or simply seeking a beautiful way to spend your evening, this performance is sure to lift your spirit and inspire your soul.

��️ Ticket Information:

General Admission: $20
Student Admission: $10

Tickets can be:

Purchased online in advance via Eventbrite
Bought at the door on the evening of the performance

�� Event Details:

Date: Saturday, September 6, 2025
Time: 7:00 PM – 9:00 PM
Location: The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin
1400 Riverside Drive, Coral Springs, FL

We encourage all members of our church family to attend and bring friends and neighbors. Let’s fill our sanctuary with joyful hearts and open ears as we welcome this incredible ensemble into our space.

Mark your calendars, grab your tickets, and join us for an evening of music, meaning, and community. We can’t wait to see you there!

Listen to a clip of Beaux Arts on Youtube: https://youtu.be/qxcKhMso5bY?si=Hl6HbkI8SmKRtCxb

A Glimpse of our Future

Thu, 07 Aug 2025 12:30:00 GMT

A Glimpse of our Future

CarePortal Training Available

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 15:29:50 GMT

Become Part of our Careportal Ministry Team

At St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, we believe that Christ calls us to love not just in word, but in action—and the CarePortal Ministry is one of the most tangible ways we live out that call.

CarePortal connects us directly with families in need—many of them referred by social workers—giving us the opportunity to offer not just items like cribs, diapers, groceries, or even a small refrigerator , but also the love and presence of Christ. Every request shared through CarePortal is reviewed by our team, and when we're able to respond, we do so not just with goods, but with grace.

As summer winds down, we’re stepping into a strategic moment — a time to strengthen our Response Teams and prepare for a Fall full of opportunity, connection, and impact.

CarePortal is inviting anyone interested to join for a special Zoom Responder Training Initiative this August , led by some of the most gifted and experienced CarePortal Network Leaders from Central and South Florida . These leaders have equipped numerous churches across the state and are passionate about helping your team feel confident and ready to respond well.

These 2-hour Zoom trainings are designed to serve both new responders and those needing a refresher. Whether your team members are just getting started or have been responding for years, they’ll walk away with helpful tools, vision, and practical encouragement.

Upcoming Training Dates & Times (Eastern Time):

Thursday, August 7 | 7:00 – 9:00 PM Zoom Link
Monday, August 11 | 6:30 – 8:30 PM Zoom Link Password: Child
Thursday, August 14 | 6:30 – 8:30 PM Zoom Link Password: Child
Wednesday, August 20 | 7:00 – 9:00 PM Zoom Link
Thursday, August 21 | 12:00 – 2:00 PM Zoom Link
Tuesday, August 26 | 6:30 – 8:30 PM Zoom Link Password: Child

Learning to do Good

Mon, 04 Aug 2025 12:30:01 GMT

When God tires of our worship

“Bring no more vain offerings; incense is an abomination to me… cease to do evil, learn to do good.”
—Isaiah 1:13, 16–17 (NRSV)

If you’ve ever been part of a church committee, you’ve probably asked this question at some point:
“What should worship look like?”
Should we use Rite I or Rite II? Contemporary or traditional music? Incense or no incense? Should the preacher wear a collar—or jeans?

But Isaiah reminds us that none of these things really matter if our lives don’t reflect God’s justice.

In Isaiah 1, God speaks through the prophet with unsettling clarity:

“What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? … I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity.”

It's not that worship itself is bad. It’s that worship, when disconnected from justice, becomes empty. We may say all the right prayers and sing all the right hymns, but if we walk past the hungry, ignore the cries of the oppressed, and perpetuate systems that crush others, our worship means nothing.

“Real worship—the kind that pleases God—is not just found in the sanctuary.
It’s found wherever we cease to do evil and learn to do good.”

Isaiah delivers a holy challenge:

“Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean;
cease to do evil,
learn to do good;
seek justice,
rescue the oppressed,
defend the orphan,
plead for the widow.”

That last line could be the whole sermon. The life of faith is not just about belief—it’s about action. It’s about formation. When Isaiah tells us to learn to do good, it means we aren’t expected to be perfect—but we are expected to be learners. Seekers. Practitioners of compassion.

And even after the harshness, comes grace:

“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow….”

God’s words aren’t for our shame—they’re for our transformation. God wants worship that moves us to mercy. God wants a people whose prayers lead to action, whose songs lead to service, whose liturgies lead to love.

So maybe the better question is not “What should worship look like?”
but: “What should worship do?”

If it doesn’t lead us toward justice,
If it doesn’t make us more loving,
If it doesn’t open our eyes to the people God cherishes most—
Then it’s time to start over.

What is your worship calling you to change this week?

Supporting Emily

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 13:22:39 GMT

Update: Emily's father has been deported - she still needs our help

It is with deep sadness that we share this heartbreaking update: Emily’s father has been deported.

You may remember Emily, the brave 11-year-old girl from our Spanish-speaking congregation who came to the United States seeking safety and hope. While Emily was granted asylum, her father was not. Despite every effort and prayer, he has now been forcibly returned to the country they fled—leaving Emily behind, alone.

By God’s grace, a compassionate family from our church continues to care for Emily, providing her with love, stability, and support in this time of deep grief and uncertainty. This family is also now working with a family lawyer to resolve custody issues so they can remain by her side and provide a permanent, safe home.

Emily's emotional trauma is ongoing. She misses her father dearly and is still adjusting to a life filled with questions and change. The financial burden for her care and legal support remains significant—including school supplies, clothing, food, counseling, and continued legal representation.

We are grateful to all who have contributed to her care. Thanks to your generosity, the church has opened a fund at Morgan Stanley specifically for Emily’s needs. This fund ensures that every dollar goes directly toward supporting her well-being and legal protection.

If you would like to help:

Donations can be made via Zelle to:
�� SupportEmily@stmmcs.net
(Please note: this goes directly to the Morgan Stanley fund for Emily)

This is not just about one child. It’s about who we are as a church. It’s about refusing to look away. It’s about showing Emily—and every vulnerable child in our midst—that love is stronger than fear, and community is stronger than isolation.

Thank you for standing with Emily. Thank you for being the heart of Christ in the world.

Being the Hands and Heart of Christ

Tue, 29 Jul 2025 13:39:47 GMT

CarePortal Ministry at Work

"Lord, when did we see you… and did not help you?" He will reply, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.”
— Matthew 25:44–45

At St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, we believe that Christ calls us to love not just in word, but in action—and the CarePortal Ministry is one of the most tangible ways we live out that call.

Sometimes we use church funds designated for outreach. Sometimes donations come from generous supporters beyond our congregation who want to help but aren’t able to go in person. However it happens, each delivery becomes a sacred moment of connection.

One mother recently told us, “ I don’t have family. I grew up in foster care. All I have is my kids. I had to skip my light bill just to get the baby something. I don’t even have enough to eat sometimes. ” Because of this minist ry, we were able to bring her children’s clothes, a bassinet, diapers, and hope. Her tears said what words could not.

There’s a saying we hold dear: " You may be the only Bible someone ever reads ." In this ministry, our actions speak volumes. One of our members put it perfectly:

“It is better to give than to receive is how this ministry makes us all feel.”

But the need is great—and growing. As Jesus reminded his disciples:
" The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few. " (Matthew 9:37)

We invite you to join us. Whether through prayer, financial support, or hands-on involvement, you can be part of this beautiful ministry that brings comfort, dignity, and God's love to families right here in our community.

Let us be the Church—not just inside our sanctuary, but out in the world.

The God Who Remembers

Mon, 28 Jul 2025 13:15:41 GMT

For this Sunday: Hosea 11:1-11, Luke 12:13-21

There are moments in life when we pause—whether by choice or necessity—and ask ourselves: What am I building my life around? What truly matters?

Scripture this week brings us two powerful images. First, in Hosea, we see a deeply emotional portrait of God—not as an aloof judge, but as a parent grieving the distance that has grown between them and their child. God says, “I taught Ephraim to walk…I took them up in my arms…Yet they did not know that I healed them.” There’s heartbreak here, but also deep tenderness. Even in the face of rejection, God refuses to give up. "My compassion grows warm and tender," God says. "I will not destroy…for I am God and no mortal."

This is not a God who walks away. This is a God who remembers.

Then we hear Jesus tell a parable in Luke 12 about a man who builds bigger barns to store his excess—only to lose his life that very night. “So it is with those,” Jesus says, “who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.” It’s a warning, yes—but not just about wealth. It’s about how easily we forget what lasts. How easily we substitute security for intimacy, accumulation for connection, and self-reliance for trust.

Together, these two readings speak to our own modern tensions. We live in a time when so many of us are striving to keep up—financially, socially, emotionally. We’re encouraged to build and save and achieve. But what if, in the midst of all this, God is whispering: Come back. Remember who you are. Let yourself be held again.

God isn’t interested in shaming us. God is interested in drawing us close. In reminding us that love, not fear, is the foundation of our lives. That relationship matters more than success. That we are more than what we earn or own or accomplish.

This week, consider:

Where have you drifted?
What would it mean to return to the heart of God?
And what would it look like to live not out of fear of losing what you’ve built, but out of trust in the One who has always loved you?

God’s love won’t let go—not in Hosea’s time, not in Jesus’ time, and not today.

Returning to the Heart of God

Tue, 22 Jul 2025 13:25:47 GMT

Hosea 1:2-10, Luke 11:1-13

There’s something powerful about old photographs.

Not long ago, I stumbled upon one tucked away in a closet—me and a dear friend, arms around each other, laughing like nothing in the world could touch us. We hadn’t spoken in years. Not because of anything dramatic—just life. Time. Distance.

That moment led to a phone call. And on the other end of the line, a quiet voice said, “I was hoping you’d call.”

It got me thinking about how easily we drift. From friends, yes—but also from God. And yet, even in the silence and space we create, God never stops hoping we’ll call. Never stops loving. Never stops waiting.

This Sunday, we’ll explore what it means to return—to reconnect with the One who has never stopped reaching for us. We’ll hear the ache of God’s love in the voice of the prophet Hosea, and we’ll receive an invitation from Jesus himself to pray in a way that’s deeply personal and profoundly simple.

If you’ve been feeling distant—from God, from prayer, from your own spirit—you are not alone. And there’s good news: the door is still open. The light is still on. The welcome is still waiting.

Join us this Sunday as we reflect on what it means to move from distance to intimacy with the One who says, “You are still mine.”

Come back. Come close. Come home.

What do You See

Mon, 14 Jul 2025 15:36:55 GMT

Amos 8:1-12

“What Do You See?”

This Sunday’s reading from the prophet Amos begins with a simple question from God: “What do you see?”

Amos answers, “A basket of summer fruit.” But what follows is anything but sweet. The prophet uses the image of ripe fruit—not to celebrate abundance, but to warn of how things that look good on the outside can be hiding something deeply broken underneath.

It’s a timely word for us today.

We live in a world filled with curated images—on screens, in politics, even in our spiritual lives. We know how to make things look healthy. But the real question is: what are we missing? What are we ignoring? Who is being harmed beneath the surface of our comfort or success?

God calls people of faith to see clearly—to notice when the scales are unjust, when the vulnerable are trampled, and when we’ve mistaken prosperity for blessing without looking at the cost.

This week, as we reflect on Scripture and on the state of our nation, our church, and our hearts, let’s ask that simple question again:

What do you see?

And maybe even more importantly: What is God inviting you to see now?

Join us Sunday as we explore how we can live with open eyes, faithful hearts, and a deeper commitment to justice.

Sowing for the Spirit

Mon, 30 Jun 2025 12:00:03 GMT

Living out the Promise of Unity

In our last reflection on Galatians, we explored how Paul’s message isn’t just about personal salvation—it’s a call to radical inclusion and shared identity.
“There is no longer Jew or Greek…slave or free…male and female,” Paul wrote, “for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3:28).

That isn’t just a comforting sentiment—it’s a disruptive reordering of community. And as we saw in our last sermon, we’ve seen this Spirit at work throughout our history: in the courage of those who stood against fascism in WWII, in the perseverance of civil rights leaders marching for justice, and in the joy and defiance of LGBTQ+ pioneers who refused to be erased. When we live by the Spirit, we lean into the difficult, beautiful work of making the world more just and more whole.

In Galatians 6:1-6, 7-16 , Paul now turns that bold vision into an urgent challenge for how we live together. “Bear one another’s burdens,” he says, “and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

If our identity in Christ is shared, then so is our responsibility.

If freedom is promised to all, then the work of building that freedom must be shared by all.

That’s not easy. And Paul doesn’t pretend that it is. He acknowledges that we grow weary. That the work of restoration is slow and that the temptation to withdraw or despair is real. But he also reminds us that what we sow matters:

“If you sow to the Spirit, you will reap eternal life from the Spirit. So let us not grow weary in doing what is right.” (6:8–9)

To sow for the Spirit is to choose love over indifference, courage over comfort, and truth over silence.

It is to say:
– I will not pretend neutrality in the face of racism.
– I will not stay silent when my LGBTQ+ siblings are targeted or erased.
– I will not look away from systems of poverty, incarceration, and exclusion.
– I will bear these burdens with others, because in Christ, they are mine too.

And that’s Paul’s point: Christian faith is not just about belief. It is about belonging to one another. It is about becoming a new creation—not just as individuals, but as a community transformed by grace.

“For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is anything,” Paul says, “but a new creation is everything!” (6:15)

As we continue to walk together in faith, we do so not as isolated believers, but as co-workers in the Spirit—partners in the holy work of justice, healing, and reconciliation.

So let us keep sowing.
Let us keep marching.
Let us keep bearing the burdens of others.
And let us live boldly into the gospel of Christ, where no one is left behind.

Grace and peace,
Lee+

Sing Out This Summer with Your Favorite Hymns!

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 26 Jun 2025 15:20:21 GMT

There is still time to submit your favorite hymn!

Dear Congregation,

As the warm rays of summer shine upon us, we are excited to bring a special musical initiative to our beloved Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin. This summer, we are celebrating the hymns that resonate with our hearts by singing the favorite hymns chosen and submitted by our congregation members.

Throughout the season, you may notice a symbol of a speaker next to some of the hymn titles in our service bulletins. This icon signifies that the hymn is a favorite of one of our fellow congregants. When you see this symbol, we encourage you to sing out with joy and enthusiasm, knowing that you are sharing in the musical joy of a fellow church member. Just imagine the warmth you’ll feel when others sing your favorite hymn with the same gusto!

For those who haven't yet submitted their favorite hymn, there is still plenty of time. We will be embracing this harmonious celebration all summer long, so don’t hesitate to be part of this joyful tradition. You can submit your favorite hymn by emailing me, Andrew Butler, at andrew.butler@stmmcs.net .

Let’s make this summer a melodic celebration of faith and community through the hymns we cherish.

Blessings,

Andrew Butler

Director of Music

The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin

Living By The Spirit

Mon, 23 Jun 2025 13:47:45 GMT

A better way of being together

The Apostle Paul’s words in Galatians 5 are rich and stirring—“Live by the Spirit, I say, and do not gratify the desires of the flesh.” It’s a passage that has long shaped Christian understanding of how we are called to live. But it’s also a passage that, for many, comes with baggage.

Let’s be honest: for generations, the language of “the flesh” has been misinterpreted—and weaponized. It has been used to shame bodies, suppress healthy sexuality, and, perhaps most grievously, exclude people from the full life of the Church. LGBTQ+ people, women, people of color, and others have often been told, explicitly or implicitly, that their identities, relationships, or desires are "of the flesh," while only certain expressions of life, love, or holiness are deemed "spiritual."

This was never Paul’s intent.

When Paul contrasts life in the flesh with life in the Spirit, he isn’t condemning embodiment or human diversity. Paul was steeped in Jewish tradition, where the body is a sacred gift and where the Spirit of God moves in and through human life. Instead, what Paul calls “the flesh” (Greek: sarx) is shorthand for a way of life rooted in self-centeredness, fear, and division. It’s life turned inward, away from God and others. It’s the kind of living that says: “me first,” that feeds resentment, that breaks relationships, that protects power at the cost of justice.

Paul names these behaviors—things like enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, and envy—not to shame, but to describe what happens when community life is ruled by ego instead of love.

By contrast, life in the Spirit isn’t about religious superiority or moral perfection. It’s about letting the Spirit bear fruit in us— love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These are not just personal virtues. They are signs of how we live together. They are the fruits of relationships rooted in dignity, grace, and mutual care.

In other words: Paul isn’t giving us a test to see who’s spiritual enough. He’s offering a vision of community that looks more and more like Christ.

So what does that mean for us today?

It means that if our theology is producing fear, division, or shame, we may be walking in the flesh—even if it’s dressed in religious language. And if our community is bearing the fruits of compassion, joy, and inclusion—especially toward those who’ve long been pushed aside—we are walking by the Spirit.

It also means that every person, regardless of identity or background, is invited into this Spirit-led life. The Spirit’s fruit is not reserved for a select few. It grows wherever hearts are open, wherever grace is shared, wherever love is made real.

We need to reclaim this passage—not as a weapon, but as a way of healing.

Because living by the Spirit isn’t about separating ourselves from others. It’s about coming alive together in Christ. It’s about forming a community where all can grow, where no one is disposable, where freedom is found not in selfishness, but in service. And it is through such communities that the world begins to change.

May we be known not by what we condemn, but by the fruit we bear.
May we choose Spirit over fear, love over division, and freedom over control.
And may we live as people who show what it means to walk in the Spirit—together.

Celebrating Pride Sunday at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 19 Jun 2025 17:05:24 GMT

This Sunday, as a community of faith, we come together at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin to celebrate Pride Sunday. This is a special day where we recognize and honor the LGBTQ+ community, reaffirming our commitment to diversity, inclusion, and love.

The Episcopal Church has a proud history of supporting the LGBTQ+ community. Since the 1970s, The Episcopal Church has been at the forefront of advocacy for inclusion and equality. In 1976, the General Convention declared that "homosexual persons are children of God who have a full and equal claim with all other persons upon the love, acceptance, and pastoral concern and care of the Church." This pivotal declaration laid the groundwork for the Church's ongoing commitment to equality. Over the years, The Episcopal Church has continued to affirm the dignity of every human being, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity.

Our liturgy is a celebration of God’s love for all people, and this Sunday, we will sing hymns that reflect our inclusive values. Among these hymns is "Draw the Circle Wide" by Mark A. Miller. This beloved hymn invites us to open our hearts and extend our circle of love, compassion, and acceptance. The lyrics remind us of the power of inclusivity, urging us to "draw the circle wide" and "no one stands alone." Other hymns to be sung include "There's a Wideness in God's Mercy," which reminds us of the boundless love and grace of God for all creation; "All the Colors of the Rainbow" by Carl P. Daw, celebrating diversity and the beauty of God's creation; and "I Am the Bread of Life," which brings us together in unity and spiritual nourishment.

Join us this Sunday as we celebrate Pride Sunday with open hearts and open arms. Let us come together in worship, song, and reflection as we continue to strive for a world that reflects God’s love and justice for all. We look forward to rejoicing with you in this special service. Welcome, all, to a place of belonging and hope.

Feeding Bodies & Spirits

Wed, 18 Jun 2025 13:32:04 GMT

One Food Bag at a Time

At The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin (Sts. MM&M), we believe that love looks like something—and this summer, it looks a lot like rice, beans, canned veggies, and a whole lot of joy!

Our Outreach Ministry just kicked off another season of support for the Coral Springs Police Summer Camp , a six-week program for at-risk youth that gives kids a safe, enriching, and fun place to be during the summer months. For the past several years, Sts. MM&M has proudly partnered with the camp to provide daily snacks and weekly take-home food bags for every camper.

Why the take-home bags? Because we know that weekends can be tough for families, and our mission is to make sure that no child leaves camp worried about where their next meal will come from. Each week features a themed menu , and our first round of bags included staples like rice, beans, canned chicken, vegetables , and even breakfast and lunch items to keep tummies full and hearts happy.

It’s more than food—it’s a message: You matter. You’re loved. We’re here for you.

At Sts. MM&M, we love partnering with our city and serving side-by-side with others to build a stronger, more compassionate Coral Springs. If you’re looking for a church that lives its faith, packs a mean food bag, and throws in a smile or two while doing it—we hope you’ll come visit us!

Because at Sts. MM&M, faith gets to work.

Until All Are Free

Mon, 16 Jun 2025 17:50:10 GMT

Theology, Identity, and the Gospel of Liberation

This Sunday, as we honor the celebration of Pride Month , we’ll hear one of the boldest and most liberating declarations in all of Scripture:

“There is no longer Jew or Greek,
there is no longer slave or free,
there is no longer male and female;
for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”
(Galatians 3:28, NRSV)

It’s easy to overlook just how revolutionary this verse was—and still is. Paul’s words in Galatians are not just poetic theology. They are a spiritual manifesto. In a world ordered by rigid categories—ethnicity, class, gender—Paul declares that the boundaries that divide us have been shattered by the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

This is not about sameness. It’s not that difference disappears in the Body of Christ—it’s that no difference can become a barrier to belonging . In baptism, we are clothed with Christ—not to lose our identities, but to see them transfigured by grace and held in beloved community.

For centuries, the Church has struggled—and often failed—to live into the fullness of this truth. LGBTQ+ people, along with many others—immigrants, people of color, people with disabilities, those who live on the margins—have been told in words and actions that they are less than, or outside God’s embrace.

Pride Sunday in the Church is a theological response to that injustice. It is a visible reminder that the gospel is not reserved for the powerful or the “acceptable,” but is good news especially for those whom the world has pushed aside.

When we affirm LGBTQ+ people, we are not capitulating to culture. We are following the way of Christ, who broke social norms to touch the untouchable, speak with the silenced, and lift up the lowly. We are reclaiming the radical truth that God’s image is found in all people , and that liberation—real, embodied liberation—is the work of the Spirit among us.

This Sunday, we’ll hear that old familiar passage from Galatians. And we’ll ask what it means to live as though it’s really true.

Until all are free, none of us are free.

And in Christ Jesus, all of us— every single one of us —are one.

Celebrate Trinity Sunday and Juneteenth

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 16:24:16 GMT

Celebrate Trinity Sunday and Juneteenth

at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin

Dear Congregation,

This coming Sunday promises to be a profoundly meaningful occasion as we gather to jointly celebrate Trinity Sunday and Juneteenth at The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Martin. This unique service will be a time for reflection, unity, and joyous worship.

We will begin our celebration with the uplifting hymn "Siyahamba - We Are Marching," a song that embodies movement and progress, setting a hopeful tone for our service. We will continue to honor Juneteenth, a day that commemorates the emancipation of enslaved African Americans, with inspiring hymns such as "Lift Every Voice and Sing" and "On Jordan's Stormy Banks." These selections highlight themes of liberation and hope, echoing the spirit of freedom that Juneteenth represents.

Juneteenth, also known as Freedom Day, marks the anniversary of June 19, 1865, when Union Major General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston, Texas, and announced the end of the Civil War and the emancipation of all enslaved people. This was more than two years after President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. The day has since become a celebration of African American culture, history, and progress, symbolizing a significant step towards equality and justice.

In celebration of Trinity Sunday, a day when we affirm our faith in the Triune God, we will lift our voices with "Come Thou Fount" and "St. Patrick's Breastplate, I Bind unto Myself." These hymns will help us reflect on the divine mystery of the Holy Trinity and deepen our spiritual connection. "St. Patrick's Breastplate" is a traditional Irish hymn attributed to St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. It is believed to have been written in the 5th century as a prayer of protection, invoking the power of the Holy Trinity. The hymn is a powerful declaration of faith and divine strength, making it particularly fitting for Trinity Sunday.

We invite everyone to join us for this special service, where we will celebrate the rich tapestry of our faith and history through song, prayer, and community fellowship. Let us gather in gratitude and joy, celebrating the diverse blessings that this special day brings.

Looking forward to worshiping together!

Blessings,

Andrew Butler

Director of Music

Wisdom

Mon, 09 Jun 2025 13:47:56 GMT

At the Heart of Creation

This Sunday, we celebrate the mystery of the Holy Trinity—a day devoted not to a single event, but to the living, loving nature of God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

One of the most beautiful and surprising passages assigned for Trinity Sunday comes not from the Gospels or Epistles, but from the Hebrew Scriptures: Proverbs 8 , where Wisdom herself speaks .

She stands in the public square, crying out to all who will listen. She recounts how she was present at the dawn of creation—"beside God like a master worker"—rejoicing in the world and delighting in the human race.

Who is this Wisdom?

In Jewish tradition, Chokmah (in Hebrew) or Sophia (in Greek) was personified as a feminine figure, often seen as the radiant expression of God’s will and creativity. Over time, Christian thinkers saw connections between this Wisdom figure and Christ , the eternal Word through whom all things were made (John 1), or with the Holy Spirit , the breath of God that animates all life.

Church Fathers such as Origen and Athanasius reflected deeply on this identification. Later mystics and theologians, including St. Hildegard of Bingen and Julian of Norwich , spoke of Divine Wisdom as intimately connected to the soul’s journey toward God. And modern scholars like Catherine LaCugna remind us that the doctrine of the Trinity is not meant to be abstract—it's about God's life with us and our life with one another.

Wisdom isn’t just a poetic device. She is a glimpse into the relational, joyful, and creative life of God—calling out to us still today.

Join us this Sunday as we explore how Wisdom gives us a fresh lens to encounter the Trinity—not as a riddle to solve, but as a relationship to enter.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll leave with a renewed sense that you, too, are part of God’s joy.

Celebrating Pentecost with Global Music in the Episcopal Church

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 17:46:16 GMT

Celebrating Pentecost with Global Music in the Episcopal Church

As we approach the vibrant celebration of Pentecost, the Episcopal Church is preparing an inspiring musical journey that reflects the diverse languages and cultures of our global Christian community. This Pentecost, we are embracing the spirit of unity and celebration through a blend of sacred music from around the world, offering a unique opportunity to connect with the universal church and celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.

The day of Pentecost commemorates the moment when the Holy Spirit descended upon the apostles, empowering them to speak in various tongues, thus reaching the multitude of people gathered in Jerusalem from different parts of the world. This miraculous event symbolizes the breaking of linguistic barriers, uniting believers through the powerful language of the Spirit. In this same spirit of unity and diversity, our Pentecost celebration will feature an array of global hymns, each offering a unique lens into the shared faith and traditions of the worldwide Christian community.

Among the selections, we will sing "Uyai Mose," a joyful and welcoming song from Zimbabwe, inviting everyone to come and worship. Its infectious rhythm and melody capture the exuberance of the African spirit and invite all to participate joyfully in communal worship.

From the Taizé community, we will present "Veni Sancte Spiritus," a meditative chant that calls upon the Holy Spirit. This piece, known for its repetitive and prayerful qualities, allows the congregation to find peace and reflection, inviting the Spirit into our hearts and lives.

"Enemy of Apathy," from the Iona Community in Scotland, will also be featured. This powerful hymn challenges us to confront complacency and invites transformation through the active presence of the Holy Spirit, encouraging a proactive faith that seeks justice and peace.

Lastly, we will sing a hymn based on the Gregorian chant "Veni Sancte Spiritus." This ancient melody connects us to the historical roots of the church, reminding us of the timelessness and universality of the Christian faith.

As we lift our voices in different languages and musical traditions, we are reminded of the first Pentecost—when the apostles spoke in tongues understood by all. Singing together in various languages not only honors this miraculous event but also celebrates the rich diversity of our global church. It becomes an act of unity, affirming that, despite our differences, we are all one in the body of Christ.

Join us this Pentecost as we sing, celebrate, and experience the transformative power of the Spirit through the beautiful tapestry of global music, enriching our understanding of faith and community.

It's About Living the Gospel

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 13:44:22 GMT

Why we honor Pride Month

Each June, rainbows line the streets, parades fill city blocks, and countless people celebrate Pride Month—a time dedicated to affirming the dignity, beauty, and rights of LGBTQ+ people. For many, Pride is a celebration of identity and liberation. For others, especially those who’ve experienced rejection from faith communities, Pride is a protest, a plea for visibility, and a reminder that love should never come with conditions.

As Christians, and especially as members of The Episcopal Church, we are called to bear witness to the transformative love of Jesus Christ. That means standing alongside those who have been marginalized, harmed, or silenced—including LGBTQ+ individuals—offering not just welcome, but affirmation, advocacy, and love. Honoring Pride Month is not about politics or cultural trends—it is about living out the Gospel.

A History of Courage and Inclusion

The Episcopal Church has a long, complex, and ultimately courageous history when it comes to LGBTQ+ inclusion. While not without struggle or setbacks, we have taken meaningful steps that reflect our growing understanding of God’s boundless love.

In 1976—nearly 50 years ago—the General Convention of The Episcopal Church declared that “homosexual persons are children of God who have a full and equal claim with all other persons upon the love, acceptance, and pastoral concern and care of the Church.” This was a groundbreaking statement at the time, a bold move toward dignity and equality.

Since then, the Church has continued its journey:

In 2003 , The Episcopal Church consecrated the Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson as Bishop of New Hampshire, the first openly gay bishop in the Anglican Communion. This milestone was met with both celebration and controversy, but it marked a decisive turn toward inclusion.
In 2009 , the Church affirmed that “God has called and may call” LGBTQ+ individuals to any ordained ministry in the Church.
By 2015 , the General Convention voted to allow same-sex couples to be married in Episcopal churches, recognizing their unions as sacramental and holy.
Today, we have openly LGBTQ+ bishops, priests, and lay leaders across the Church, and many dioceses actively participate in Pride events, host educational forums, and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights.

This history is not perfect. We have made mistakes. But we have also listened, repented, and grown. Honoring Pride Month is a way to remember that history, recommit to justice, and walk forward together in love.

Why It Matters

So why should the Church honor Pride Month?

1. Because LGBTQ+ people are beloved children of God.
This isn’t an abstract theological point—it’s a truth that demands action. Honoring Pride reminds LGBTQ+ people that they are seen, loved, and made in the image of God.

2. Because the Church has historically caused harm.
We must be honest about the Church’s complicity in promoting shame, fear, and exclusion. Pride Month gives us an opportunity to repent, make amends, and work for healing.

3. Because silence is complicity.
To say nothing is to say something. The Church must speak clearly and compassionately in the face of ongoing discrimination, both in society and within religious institutions.

4. Because love is louder than fear.
The message of Jesus is one of radical love. When the Church shows up at Pride, opens its doors to LGBTQ+ people, and proclaims the Gospel of liberation, we embody Christ’s inclusive love.

A Living Witness

Honoring Pride Month isn’t about following cultural trends—it’s about living our baptismal vows. We promise to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves,” and to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.”

That includes LGBTQ+ people. That includes their families. That includes those who have been told, falsely, that God’s love has limits.

As The Episcopal Church continues to grow in grace, we honor Pride Month not just with banners or services, but with an ongoing commitment to be a Church where every person can thrive—beloved, affirmed, and free.

Let us be that Church. This June, and every month.

Soon to be 50 Years

Mon, 02 Jun 2025 13:37:02 GMT

Working to make The Episcopal Church a place of radical belonging

A Call for Help

fatherlee@stmmcs.net (Lee Davis) — Wed, 28 May 2025 18:32:10 GMT

Urgent Assistance Needed

With broken hearts, we share a story that no child should ever have to live—a story unfolding in our very own parish community.

An 11-year-old girl, one of our Spanish speaking members, came to this country seeking safety, hope, and freedom from violence. Together with her father, she crossed borders and braved the unknown in search of a life where she could grow up without fear.

She was granted asylum. He was not.

Just days ago, she watched—powerless—as ICE agents took her father away. One moment, he was holding her hand. The next, he was gone. Detained. Transferred to a facility hundreds of miles away. She was left utterly alone, a child without a parent, without answers, without a map for what comes next.

By the mercy of God, a compassionate family in our parish has taken her in. They did not hesitate. They opened their home and hearts to this terrified, grieving child. But the weight they carry is heavy—emotionally, spiritually, and financially.

This little girl is traumatized. She cries for her father and struggles to sleep at night. She is afraid. She is uncertain. She is, in every sense, a child in exile.

Her caretakers now face the enormous task of providing not only for her daily needs—food, clothing, school materials—but also for the escalating legal costs tied to her case and the desperate efforts to keep her father from being deported forever.

We cannot undo what happened. But we can refuse to turn away.

We can choose to show her she is not forgotten.

We can stand with this child in the face of injustice and declare: You are not alone. We are with you. We are your family now.

Will you help us care for her?

To donate:

In person – Bring a donation to Sunday services or the parish office (Monday–Friday, 9:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.) in an envelope marked:
Support for Child

Online via Zelle –

Send to: zelle@stmmcs.net
Please include the note: Support for Child

In moments like this, we are reminded of what it truly means to be the Body of Christ. When one member suffers, we all suffer. When one child weeps, we all are called to wipe her tears.

Thank you for your compassion, your prayers, and your willingness to be Christ’s hands and heart in this world.

In hope and solidarity,

Father Lee Davis+, Rector & Mother Diana Garcia+, Associate Rector

Una niña arrancada de su padre—¿Puedes ayudarla?

Queridos hermanos y hermanas en Cristo:

Con el corazón desgarrado, les compartimos una historia que ninguna niña debería vivir—una historia que está ocurriendo aquí mismo, en nuestra comunidad parroquial.

Una niña Hispania de 11 años parte de nuestra congrecación, llegó a este país junto a su padre en busca de seguridad, esperanza y libertad del miedo. Cruzaron fronteras, enfrentaron peligros y confiaron en que aquí encontrarían una vida en paz.

A ella le fue concedido el asilo. A su padre, no.

Hace apenas unos días, esta niña vio—sin poder hacer nada—cómo agentes de inmigración se llevaban a su papá. En un instante, él sostenía su mano. Al siguiente, había desaparecido. Detenido. Trasladado a un centro lejos de Florida. Ella quedó completamente sola. Sin familia. Sin respuestas. Sin saber qué hacer.

Por la misericordia de Dios, una familia generosa de nuestra parroquia abrió su hogar y su corazón para cuidarla. No dudaron en ofrecerle amor y refugio. Pero el peso que ahora llevan es enorme—emocional, espiritual y económico.

La niña está profundamente traumatizada. Llora por su padre. Le cuesta dormir. Tiene miedo. Está atrapada en una tormenta que ninguna niña debería enfrentar sola.

Esta familia ahora es responsable de cubrir sus necesidades básicas—comida, ropa, materiales escolares—y también los gastos legales significativos tanto para su caso como para el intento de evitar la deportación definitiva de su padre.

No podemos deshacer lo que ha ocurrido. Pero sí podemos elegir no mirar hacia otro lado.

Podemos mostrarle que no está sola.

Podemos decirle con nuestras acciones: Estamos contigo. Ahora somos tu familia.

¿Quieres ayudarnos a cuidarla?

Puedes hacer una donación:

En persona – Durante los servicios del domingo o en horario de oficina (lunes a viernes, 9:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.), usando un sobre marcado:
Apoyo para la niña

Por Zelle –

Enviar a: zelle@stmmcs.net

Por favor, escribe en la nota: Apoyo para la niña

En momentos como este, recordamos lo que significa verdaderamente ser el Cuerpo de Cristo. Cuando un miembro sufre, todos sufrimos. Cuando una niña llora, todos estamos llamados a consolarla.

Gracias por su compasión, sus oraciones, y su compromiso con el amor y la justicia.

Come, Lord Jesus

Mon, 26 May 2025 12:00:03 GMT

A Cry of Hope in the Easter Season

Revelation 22:12-14,16-17,20-21

The Easter season doesn't end with lilies and alleluias—it ends with a promise. And not just any promise, but the promise of Christ’s return. In these final verses of Revelation, we’re given a glimpse into the heart of our faith: not only do we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus from the grave, but we also look forward to the day when he will return to make all things new.

“See, I am coming soon; my reward is with me, to repay according to everyone’s work.” (Revelation 22:12, NRSV)

These words may stir a mix of feelings—hope, anticipation, maybe even some unease. After all, talk of judgment can be uncomfortable. But in the Easter season, this isn’t meant to be a threat; it’s a reassurance. Christ, the Lamb who was slain and who conquered death, is coming back—not to destroy, but to complete the story. He is coming back to heal, to set right what is broken, and to bring final justice rooted in love.

“Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life.” (v.14)

This is the Easter message carried to its fullness. Christ’s resurrection is not just a moment in history—it is the opening of the gate to life. Through him, we are invited to participate in the life of God, to be cleansed, renewed, and made part of something eternal.

Jesus speaks directly to the church in these verses, identifying himself as the “root and descendant of David, the bright morning star.” The imagery reminds us that he is both the fulfillment of Israel’s ancient hope and the dawning of a new creation. The morning star appears when the night is at its darkest, signaling that the light of day is near.

In a world still groaning with injustice, war, and heartbreak, we desperately need that morning star. We need to know that the night will not last forever.

And so the Spirit and the church respond:

“The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’
And let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’
And let everyone who is thirsty come.
Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” (vv.16-17)

This is the cry of the Easter people. “Come, Lord Jesus.” Not just in the future at the end of time—but now, into our lives, our churches, our communities. Come into our weariness. Come into our joy. Come into our struggle for justice and our hope for peace. Come into our mourning and into our celebrations.

We don’t wait passively. We wait with purpose. We wait as people shaped by the resurrection, living in love, proclaiming Christ’s good news, caring for the poor, and building a world that reflects God’s kingdom. And every act of kindness, every sacrificial love, every effort to feed the hungry or comfort the brokenhearted is a response to the promise: “Surely I am coming soon.”

The Easter season teaches us to live in the in-between. Christ is risen—and Christ will come again. We live in the light of the empty tomb and with our eyes on the horizon.

Until then, we echo the final prayer of Scripture:

“Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!
The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen.” (vv.20-21)

In this season of resurrection, may we live as people of hope—ready, watching, and always thirsty for the water of life.

Alleluia. Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Why Ordinary Time won't be ordinary this summer

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 22 May 2025 15:03:56 GMT

Let's sing each other's favorite hymn

Exciting Hymn Singing This Summer

As the summer sun rises higher in the sky and we move into the liturgical season of Ordinary Time, our church is excited to announce a special addition to our services: hymn singing based on your requests! Hymns play a vital role in our worship, serving as a powerful medium of prayer and praise, rich in tradition and spirituality. This summer, we invite you to take part in shaping the soundtrack of our services by sharing your favorite hymns.

The Tradition of Hymn Singing in the Episcopal Church

Hymn singing has long been a treasured tradition within the Episcopal Church, enhancing our connection to faith and community. Each hymn we sing is a piece of history, bringing with it stories of faith, hope, and love. Whether it’s a classic hymn that has been sung for generations or a more contemporary piece, every song has a unique way of touching our hearts and lifting our spirits.

How You Can Contribute

We’re reaching out to our congregation to compile a list of beloved hymns that you would like to hear during our summer services. Is there a hymn that has special meaning to you? Perhaps one that brings back fond memories or that resonates with your personal spiritual journey?

How to Submit Your Hymn Requests

Submitting your hymn request is simple. You can either email me your favorite hymn or feel free to speak with me in person after any service. If your favorite hymn is in the 1982 Hymnal or one of our Episcopal hymnal supplements, you can give me the hymn number. If it is not, then if possible, if you can give me the music. Please note, we kindly ask that each person limit to one hymn to ensure a diverse selection. Your suggestions will not only enrich our worship experience but also highlight the diverse tapestry of faith within our community.

Join Us in Celebration

Join us this summer as we celebrate our faith through the beauty of hymn singing. Let us come together to uplift our spirits and sing the hymns that speak to our hearts.

Encouragement for All

We encourage everyone, even if you aren’t familiar with a hymn requested, to try your best to sing along. These hymns are special to someone in our community, and your participation helps to create a supportive and inclusive atmosphere for those who hold these hymns dear.

We look forward to receiving your requests and to an inspiring season of worship through song!

The Unusual Woman in Acts

Mon, 19 May 2025 14:42:12 GMT

Just who is Lydia?

When we picture the early church, we often imagine bold apostles preaching in public squares, churches forming around charismatic men like Peter and Paul, and great crowds moved by dramatic miracles.

But sometimes, the story takes an unexpected turn.

One of the most important—and surprising—figures in the early church is a woman named Lydia, whose story appears briefly in Acts 16:9–15. Her name is easy to overlook, tucked into a few verses about Paul’s missionary journey. But Lydia is deeply unusual. Here is why she stands out:

A Woman as the First European Convert

Lydia is the first recorded convert to Christianity in Europe . Paul had a vision calling him to Macedonia (v. 9), and when he arrived in Philippi, it was Lydia—a woman—who responded first to the message. This is significant in a deeply patriarchal society where men typically held religious and social authority.

A Businesswoman with Her Own Household

Lydia is described as a “dealer in purple cloth,” which was a luxury item associated with wealth and status (v. 14). She likely had considerable financial means , independence, and influence. She also appears to be the head of her household , which was highly unusual in the Greco-Roman world.

A God-Worshiper Outside the Synagogue

Lydia is described as a “worshiper of God,” a term typically used for Gentiles who were sympathetic to or interested in Judaism but had not converted fully. Yet Paul and his companions don't find her in a synagogue, but rather at a prayer gathering by the river (v. 13). This may suggest there was no synagogue in Philippi , likely because there weren’t even ten Jewish men to form one. That this group was made up of women gathered for prayer is highly notable—it shows a deeply spiritual and perhaps even subversive faith community outside the male-dominated structures.

Hospitality and Leadership

After her baptism, Lydia immediately offers hospitality to Paul and his companions (v. 15), and insists that they stay at her house. Her language (“If you have judged me to be faithful...”) shows boldness and initiative , and her home likely becomes the first house church in Philippi —effectively making her a leader in the early Christian movement there.

Lydia’s story is unusual because she defies expectations:

A wealthy, independent woman
A Gentile seeker of God
The first European convert
The host and likely patron of the Philippian church

In a passage that begins with Paul receiving a vision of a man from Macedonia asking for help, it is actually a woman—Lydia—who responds , showing that God's work often begins in surprising and boundary-breaking ways.

When God Breaks Boundaries

Mon, 12 May 2025 14:02:51 GMT

Reflection on Act's 11:1-18

The reading from Acts 11:1–18 tells a story that shook the early church to its core. Peter, a Jew and follower of Jesus, comes under fire—not from the authorities or unbelievers, but from his own community. "Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?" they demand. It’s a question laced with judgment, confusion, and fear. Peter had crossed a line. He had broken a boundary that many thought God had drawn clearly.

But Peter responds not with defensiveness, but with testimony. He recounts his vision—how the heavens opened and a sheet descended, filled with all kinds of animals considered unclean. Three times, a voice told him, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.” (v. 9, NRSV)

This wasn’t just about food. It was about people. Gentiles. Outsiders. The very ones whom the early Jewish Christians assumed were beyond God’s reach. But then Peter tells of how the Holy Spirit fell upon Cornelius and his household—the uncircumcised, the “other”—in the same way it had fallen on the disciples at Pentecost. “If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ,” Peter asks, “who was I that I could hinder God?” (v. 17)

That question echoes across the centuries. Who are we to hinder God?

It’s a question the church must always be willing to ask. Whenever we draw lines—around race, nationality, class, sexual orientation, gender identity, political affiliation, or theology—we must remember that God's Spirit blows where it will. The boundaries we think are fixed, God redraws—or erases entirely. The Spirit shows up in unexpected places, among unexpected people, offering the same grace and gifts we once thought were reserved only for “us.”

The good news of this passage is not just that outsiders are welcomed in. It’s that God is always at work expanding the church's heart. The early disciples didn’t just have to accept the Gentiles—they had to be changed themselves. Their understanding of God had to grow. Their hearts had to open wider. And when they did, they were left speechless. “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life,” they say in awe (v. 18).

This story reminds us that the church is not ours to control, gatekeep, or limit. It belongs to God. And if God is doing something new, if the Spirit is moving in ways we hadn’t expected, our task is not to resist but to bear witness—to tell the story, to celebrate it, and to be changed by it.

May we have the courage to recognize when God is breaking down our walls. And may we have the humility to step aside when the Spirit moves, saying with Peter: “Who was I that I could hinder God?”

Announcing Our 2025 Grant Cycle

Wed, 07 May 2025 14:31:33 GMT

2025 Grant Cycle Now Open

The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin is excited to announce the launch of our 2025 Grant Program! We're inviting nonprofit organizations serving North Broward County to apply for grants ranging from $1,000 to $20,000.

Our Mission:

To award grants in the name of Christ to nonprofit organizations meeting the needs of the North Broward County community.

Our Vision:

To enhance the dignity and quality of life of individuals and families in the North Broward County community.

We support initiatives in:

At-risk youth programs and children's services
Adult services
Homelessness
Survivors of gun violence or domestic violence
The arts

Eligibility Criteria:

Must be a 501(c)(3) organization registered in Florida
Demonstrated track record of service
Projects must serve residents of North Broward County (north of Commercial Blvd to the Broward/Palm Beach County line, but may be located outside of these boundaries.)

Key Dates:

Application Deadline: September 2, 2025
Grants Awarded: October 24, 2025, at our annual Gala

Apply now and be a part of transforming lives in our community. For more information and to begin your application, visit: stmmcs.net/2025-grants

The Voice of the Shepherd

Mon, 05 May 2025 12:49:16 GMT

A Mother's Day Reflection

John 10:22-30

This Sunday, we hear the familiar and comforting words of Jesus: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” (John 10:27). It's the Fourth Sunday of Easter, traditionally known as Good Shepherd Sunday—a day when the Church pauses to reflect on Christ’s care, protection, and guidance as the Good Shepherd. This year, it also happens to fall on Mother’s Day, and that intersection offers a beautiful opportunity to contemplate how we experience the voice of Christ in our lives—often through those who have nurtured us in love.

When Jesus says, “I know my sheep,” he’s not talking about a distant or superficial knowing. He means an intimate, loving recognition—like the way a mother knows her child’s cry in the night or can discern what’s really wrong even when no words are spoken. The Good Shepherd knows us like that. He sees us, understands our needs, walks with us in our fears, and offers us eternal security—not only in the life to come, but right now.

Mother’s Day can stir a range of emotions. For many, it's a day of gratitude for a mother’s love that mirrored the care of the Good Shepherd—protective, self-giving, and unwavering. For others, it's a more complicated day: a reminder of grief, absence, longing, or pain. But no matter our experience with earthly mothers, the Gospel assures us that we are not abandoned. We are known. We are loved. We are held in hands that will never let us go: “No one will snatch them out of my hand,” Jesus promises (v. 28).

In many ways, the work of shepherding—of nurturing, guiding, and protecting—has been lived out in the mothers, grandmothers, aunties, teachers, godparents, and mentors who have helped shape us. Whether biological or spiritual, the people who have cared for us in the name of love have shown us something of God’s heart. And perhaps part of our calling today is to give thanks—and to extend that same shepherding love to others.

Jesus’ promise in this passage is not just about safety; it’s about relationship. It’s about listening for the voice of the Shepherd in a noisy world. It’s about knowing that we are never alone. And maybe it’s also about recognizing that we are called to be echoes of that voice—to speak love, peace, and welcome to others in the way Jesus has spoken it to us.

So this Good Shepherd Sunday, and this Mother’s Day, we give thanks for those who have shepherded us with grace. And we listen again for the voice of the One who says, “I know you. I love you. You are mine.” May we follow that voice, and may we help others hear it, too.

Go Into All the World

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 13:56:26 GMT

Trusting the Promise (Feast of St. Mark The Evangelist)

Today, we celebrate the Feast of St. Mark the Evangelist , the author of the Gospel of Mark and one of the earliest witnesses to the Good News of Jesus Christ. Our reading for this feast, Mark 16:15-20 , feels like a sudden and dramatic conclusion: Jesus commissions the disciples to "go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation," promising that believers will cast out demons, speak in new tongues, survive deadly poison, and heal the sick.

At first glance, these words can feel so distant from our everyday experience that they almost sound like they belong in a fantasy novel, not in a guide for real life. How many of us have seen someone drink poison unharmed, or cast out demons in the street? Is this passage a relic of a more "superstitious" age, or does it still speak to us today?

The truth is that this ending of Mark isn't just about miraculous spectacles. It's about trusting in the ongoing presence and power of God —even when we can't always see it in the ways described. It's important to know that Mark 16:9-20 was likely added later by early Christians who deeply believed that the risen Christ continued to be active through his followers. Whether or not these signs were literal, the message is clear: we are not alone.

When Jesus sends the disciples out, he doesn't just send them into safe or easy places. He sends them "into all the world," to a humanity that would often resist, reject, or misunderstand them. He promises that when they are at their most vulnerable, when they are face-to-face with evil, danger, and sickness, they will not be abandoned. God's Spirit will be with them, empowering them in ways beyond their own strength.

And that is still true today.

When we speak words of love and truth in places of hatred and division, we are speaking in a "new tongue."
When we confront injustice, addiction, violence, and despair, we are participating in the healing of God's world—casting out the powers that harm God's beloved children.
When we endure the poisons of cynicism, corruption, and fear without losing heart, we are living testimonies to the resurrection power of Christ.

We may not often see these signs in flashy, miraculous ways. But every time a community forgives rather than retaliates, every time an exhausted caregiver finds the strength to continue, every time someone chooses hope instead of despair—that is the work of Christ continuing in the world. That is a miracle.

St. Mark's Gospel reminds us that the story doesn't end with the resurrection; it launches a movement. The disciples were flawed, ordinary people, not superheroes. And yet, by God's grace, they changed the world. We are their inheritors, their fellow witnesses.

On this Feast of St. Mark, we are invited to hear Jesus' call again:
"Go into all the world and proclaim the good news."

The world still needs healing.
The world still needs hope.
The world still needs Christ’s love—and it needs us to be brave enough to carry it.

May we go forth with confidence, trusting that even when the journey feels far-fetched or impossible, the Lord is working with us and through us, just as he promised.

Amen.

Crowned with Glory

Thu, 24 Apr 2025 12:48:08 GMT

Psalm 8

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?”
—Psalm 8:3–4

The psalmist looks to the heavens and feels small. Who hasn't? Standing beneath a vast night sky or beside an ocean that seems to stretch on forever, it’s easy to feel insignificant. And yet, in this very moment of humility, Psalm 8 offers us astonishing good news:

“Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and honor.” (v. 5)

The paradox of Psalm 8 is that we are nothing, and yet everything, in the eyes of God. We are dust—and yet we bear the divine image. We are frail—and yet crowned with glory. It’s a holy tension that Easter invites us to dwell in.

On this Thursday in Easter Week, we are still basking in the glow of resurrection light. The tomb is empty, Christ is risen, and nothing will ever be the same. And what does the risen Christ say to his disciples? “Peace be with you.” What does he do? He breathes on them, commissioning them to continue his mission.

Easter doesn’t just affirm Christ’s victory over death. It reaffirms the dignity and purpose of every human life. Christ doesn’t rise alone—he raises us with him. He redeems our humanity. He restores the divine image that sin and sorrow tried to distort.

Psalm 8 becomes, in light of Easter, not just a song of awe, but a proclamation of resurrection identity. We are not forgotten. We are not forsaken. We are crowned—crowned not with power as the world defines it, but with the kind of glory that looks like love poured out, mercy offered, lives made new.

So as you move through this Easter week, pause under the sky if you can. Gaze at the stars. Feel your smallness. And then remember: God sees you. God crowns you. And in Christ, you are raised to new life.

Alleluia.

Were Not Our Hearts Burning Within Us?

Wed, 23 Apr 2025 13:25:20 GMT

Luke 24:13-35

Two disciples walk a dusty road, their hearts heavy with grief. The dream they dared to hope for—the Messiah who would redeem Israel—has ended in a brutal cross and a sealed tomb. Now they make their way to Emmaus, seven miles from Jerusalem, not just in distance but in despair.

And then, a stranger joins them.

He listens to their confusion, their pain. “We had hoped,” they say. Three simple words that carry the weight of every broken dream and every unanswered prayer. We had hoped the cancer would go away. We had hoped the relationship would heal. We had hoped the job would come through. We had hoped the war would end. We had hoped…

The stranger doesn’t dismiss their pain. He walks with them through it. He opens Scripture, not like a weapon but like a balm. And their hearts begin to stir, even before they recognize him.

It isn’t until they reach the table, when he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them, that their eyes are opened. In that moment, the stranger is revealed to be Christ himself. And just as suddenly, he vanishes.

But the vanishing isn’t the point. The recognition is. Christ is risen. He has been walking with them all along.

And so they run. Back to Jerusalem, back to community, back to the others, breathless with wonder: “The Lord has risen indeed!”

The Road to Emmaus is more than a resurrection story. It’s a story of how Jesus continues to come alongside us, especially when we least expect him. He meets us in our grief, in our doubt, in our “we had hoped.” He speaks not only through Scripture but through companionship, through shared meals, through acts of hospitality.

We may not always recognize him at first. Sometimes Jesus shows up disguised as a stranger, a refugee, a neighbor in need. Sometimes he is found in the Word, and sometimes in the breaking of bread at a Eucharistic table or a kitchen table.

This story invites us to look again—at the road we’re on, the conversations we’re having, the people we meet along the way. It reminds us that resurrection doesn’t just happen in a garden tomb. It happens on the road. In our walking. In our wondering. In our breaking and sharing.

So today, wherever your road may lead, keep your eyes open. The Risen Christ still walks beside us. And when we dare to make room at our tables—for the stranger, for the weary, for the grieving—we just might find that our hearts begin to burn again.

Christ is Risen. Christ is Risen indeed. Alleluia.

Called By Name

Tue, 22 Apr 2025 13:13:24 GMT

A Reflection for Tuesday in Easter Week

John 20:11–18 (NRSV)

Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher).

Easter is too big for just one day.

That’s why we celebrate it as a season—a full fifty days of resurrection, of joy, of letting the truth of Christ’s victory soak deep into our bones. But even in Easter week, joy can feel fragile. We’ve seen the empty tomb, yes—but there are still moments when we find ourselves like Mary Magdalene: standing outside the grave, weeping, not quite sure what to believe.

She looks for a body. Instead, she finds a gardener—until she hears her name. “Mary.” That’s all it takes. Her world changes in an instant. Sorrow turns to joy. Confusion gives way to recognition. The impossible has happened: Christ is alive.

There’s a beautiful intimacy in this moment. The first person to witness the resurrection isn’t a priest, prophet, or ruler—it’s a friend. A woman who followed Jesus all the way to the cross and stayed. A woman whose love and grief were so strong that even the threat of Roman guards couldn’t keep her away from his tomb.

And how does the risen Christ appear to her? Not in a blaze of glory. Not in a dramatic announcement. But by saying her name. Mary.

This is the heart of the Easter message: that the risen Christ knows us and calls us by name. He meets us in our confusion, in our longing, in our ordinary, tear-streaked places—and speaks to us as someone who knows us deeply. Resurrection is personal. It’s not just about life after death. It’s about Christ showing up in the garden of our lives and reminding us that love has the final word.

So if Easter still feels a little distant—if the world’s brokenness or your own weariness is clouding the joy—remember Mary. Stay near the tomb. Keep your heart open. Listen. The risen Jesus is already close by. And he knows your name.

Easter Practice for Today: Take a few moments of silence today. Imagine Jesus saying your name with love. What do you hear? What do you feel? How might you carry that love into the world this week?

Do not be Afraid

Mon, 21 Apr 2025 13:23:03 GMT

Proclaiming the Risen Christ in the Face of Resistance

“Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’” (Matthew 28:9–10, NRSV)

It’s still Easter. And the world is still reeling from resurrection.

The women who came to the tomb early in the morning have just had their entire worldview flipped upside down. Grief has given way to awe, confusion to joy. Jesus is alive. The one who was crucified and laid in a tomb now stands before them—living, breathing, greeting them with peace. And the first thing he says? “Do not be afraid.”

That might sound strange at first—why fear, when the best news imaginable has just broken through the darkness? But fear makes sense. Resurrection is not just a comfort—it’s a disruption. It means that everything we thought was final can be undone. It means the powers of death and violence and empire do not get the last word. And that can be terrifying, especially for those who have grown comfortable with the world as it is.

We see this tension play out in today’s Gospel. While the women run to tell the disciples the good news, another group runs to the authorities to contain it. The guards—witnesses to the same resurrection event—report to the chief priests, who quickly orchestrate a cover-up. Money is exchanged. A false narrative is spread. “Tell people,” they say, “His disciples came by night and stole him away while we were asleep.”

It’s sobering to realize that even the resurrection, the ultimate sign of God’s triumph, is met not only with faith and joy but with fear, denial, and propaganda.

But here's the hope: the truth is already out.

No amount of bribery or spin can put Jesus back in the tomb. The Risen Christ has already greeted Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. They have already worshiped him, touched his feet, heard his voice. The living Jesus cannot be silenced.

This Easter Monday, we are invited to live like those women—carrying the news of resurrection with urgency, joy, and courage. We will face resistance. There will always be those who prefer the comfort of a sealed tomb to the discomfort of a living, calling, commissioning Savior. But we are resurrection people. We have seen the Lord.

So do not be afraid. Tell the story. Live the good news. Christ is risen—and that changes everything.

Alleluia. Amen.

From Darkness to Light

Sat, 19 Apr 2025 12:30:00 GMT

Experiencing the Great Vigil of Easter

Holy Saturday is a day of stillness—a quiet pause between the agony of Good Friday and the joy of Easter morning. It is a day when the Church keeps watch at the tomb, holding its breath in the tension between death and resurrection. But the silence of Holy Saturday is not the end of the story.

It ends in fire.
It ends in light.
It ends in song.

The stillness of Holy Saturday gives way to the Great Vigil of Easter —the Church’s oldest and most dramatic liturgy, a service that begins in darkness and erupts into joyful alleluias. It is the moment when we move from mourning to celebration, from death to life, from despair to hope. And it does so not through words alone, but through signs and symbols that awaken our senses and proclaim again: Christ is risen! Alleluia!

If you've never attended the Vigil, or even if you have for many years, it can feel both mysterious and deeply grounding. Each part of the service is rich in symbolism, woven together to help us experience the heart of our faith.

1. The Service of Light: Kindling New Fire

The Vigil begins in darkness. The church is quiet. It feels almost like standing at the edge of creation, waiting for light to break forth. Outside (or sometimes inside, depending on the setting), a fire is kindled—a new fire , symbolizing the light of Christ breaking into the darkness of death and sin.

From that fire, the Paschal Candle is lit. It is tall and sturdy, often decorated with a cross, the Alpha and Omega, and the current year. This candle becomes the guiding light, carried into the darkened church. From it, smaller candles are lit and passed from person to person, illuminating the sanctuary and our faces, signifying that Christ’s light is now shared with each of us.

This moment isn’t just dramatic—it’s theological. It proclaims that Christ, the Light of the World, has overcome the darkness, and that his light now lives in us.

2. The Exsultet: Proclaiming the Light

Once the church is aglow with candlelight, a deacon or cantor sings the Exsultet —a soaring, poetic hymn that gives voice to the joy of resurrection. It praises the night itself: "This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell."

The Exsultet places us in sacred time. We are not just remembering the resurrection as past event—we are stepping into it. This is the night. The words invite us into a holy awe and remind us that God's salvation is not bound by time or place.

3. The Service of Readings: Telling Our Story

Then come the readings—often called the Vigil readings , which recount the story of salvation. These span from creation to the exodus from Egypt, from the prophets to the promise of new life.

In many churches, these readings are accompanied by music, silence, or even dramatic presentations. They form a kind of spiritual journey, reminding us that our God has always been a God of liberation, renewal, and faithful love.

It’s worth noting that the number of readings can vary, but traditionally there are nine —a symbolic echo of the fullness of God’s saving work.

4. Baptism and Renewal of Vows: New Life in Christ

With the coming of the Gloria —the return of light, bells, and joy—we finally proclaim that Christ is risen . The mood shifts. The candles are bright, the altar is revealed, and the alleluias return!

This is often the moment for baptisms —a deeply appropriate response to resurrection. In the early Church, this was the moment when catechumens were baptized and welcomed as new Christians. If there are no baptisms, the congregation renews their baptismal vows, reminding ourselves of the promises we’ve made and the identity we’ve received in Christ.

Water is splashed, perhaps generously. It’s a joyful mess—a sacramental sign that life cannot be contained or controlled.

5. The First Eucharist of Easter: The Feast Begins

Finally, we gather for the Eucharist , the first of Easter. It is no longer Lent. The tomb is empty. Christ is risen. We share the meal of life and salvation, knowing that in bread and wine, Christ is truly present.

The Vigil is long. It is ancient. It is dramatic. And yet, it is also deeply human. It tells the story of our lives—how we walk in darkness, how we long for light, how God meets us in love and brings us into new life.

So come—bring your longing, your weariness, your hope. Come sit in the dark and wait for the light. Come and sing “Alleluia” like it’s the first time you’ve ever sung it. Because in a way, it is.

This is the night.

Good Friday

Fri, 18 Apr 2025 11:44:09 GMT

It Is Finished

On Good Friday, the church gathers not to reenact a tragedy, but to stand at the foot of the cross and enter the mystery of Christ’s Passion. It is a day unlike any other—a liturgy that feels stripped down and stark, with silence that speaks louder than any hymn, and symbols that carry a weight beyond words.

There is no Eucharistic celebration on Good Friday. Instead, we receive communion from the sacrament consecrated the night before, a reminder that Jesus was handed over, broken, and poured out. The absence of the Eucharistic prayer is jarring—and it should be. We live in the echo of something already given, already lost.

The Power of Silence

Silence permeates the Good Friday liturgy. We begin in silence. We leave in silence. In between, silence punctuates the readings, the prayers, the veneration of the cross. This silence isn’t empty—it’s full of awe, grief, and waiting. It reminds us that sometimes words fail, and only the stillness can hold the weight of suffering and love entwined.

The Cross: From Instrument of Death to Sign of Love

One of the most profound moments in the Good Friday liturgy is the Veneration of the Cross. A simple wooden cross is brought forward—often slowly, in stages—with the chant, “Behold the wood of the Cross, on which hung the Savior of the world.”

This cross, an instrument of state violence and shame, becomes for us the tree of life. It stands at the center of the liturgy, not adorned with gold or jewels, but plain, unvarnished—because love doesn’t need decoration. As we kneel or touch or simply gaze upon the cross, we’re reminded: this is not just Jesus’ story. This is the story of all who suffer, all who are crucified by systems of injustice and hate. And through Christ, the cross becomes a symbol not only of death but of redemption.

The Reading of the Passion

On Good Friday, we read John’s account of the Passion. This version, unlike the others, gives Jesus a sense of calm authority. He knows what is to come and willingly enters it. The garden is not a place of agony but of encounter. At the cross, Jesus sees his mother and the beloved disciple and binds them into a new family. Even in the midst of pain, there is creation and care.

The final words, “It is finished,” are not a cry of defeat. They are a declaration of completion, fulfillment, the crossing of a threshold.

The Solemn Collects

The Solemn Collects, ancient prayers offered on this day, are another rich part of the liturgy. We pray for the Church, for the world, for those in need, for those who do not believe. It’s as if, while the world holds its breath, we reach out in intercession on behalf of all creation. We remember that Christ died not just for those who love him, but for all—whether they know it or not.

The Bare Altar

The altar, stripped the night before, remains bare on Good Friday. No candles, no linens, no color. The absence speaks volumes. The starkness forces us to face the reality of death—unvarnished, unembellished. It is a visual representation of the emptiness we feel in the shadow of the cross.

Yet, hidden in that barrenness is hope. For we know what the first disciples did not: Easter is coming. Resurrection is on the horizon. But on this day, we do not rush ahead. We linger. We wait.

A Day of Paradox

Good Friday is filled with paradox. We call this day “good,” even though it commemorates suffering and death. But it is good—not because death is good—but because love went to the very depths for our sake. It is good because in Christ, God refuses to be distant from our pain. It is good because the story does not end in the tomb.

So, we gather. We listen. We kneel. We wait in silence.

And in the quiet shadow of the cross, we dare to believe that love is stronger than death. That mercy is stronger than judgment. That the story is not over.

It is finished.
But God is not done.

Eastertide Music Series

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 17 Apr 2025 14:53:09 GMT

Exploring Bach's Easter Oratorio

As we enter the joyous season of Eastertide, we are excited to begin a series of articles exploring the rich tapestry of music that celebrates the resurrection of Christ. This week, we delve into Bach’s majestic Easter Oratorio, focusing on its opening piece, the Sinfonia, which will be performed during our Easter Sunday service.

Johann Sebastian Bach, one of the most celebrated composers of the Baroque era, created the Easter Oratorio in 1725, and it has since become a cornerstone of Easter celebrations around the world. The Oratorio, BWV 249, is a vibrant and expressive work, rich with musical imagery that captures the essence of the resurrection.

The Sinfonia, which serves as the instrumental prelude to the Oratorio, is particularly noteworthy. It sets the stage for the narrative of Christ’s resurrection with a sense of grandeur and triumph. The piece opens with lively rhythmic patterns and a compelling dialogue between the organ and brass, reflecting the joy and celebration of Easter morning.

This Easter Sunday, our own talented organist, Tony Arico, will bring the Sinfonia to life on the organ. Accompanying him will be a magnificent brass quintet, whose rich, resonant tones will fill our sanctuary with the spirit of Easter. Together, they will present this stunning piece, inviting us to reflect on the resurrection through the power of music.

The Significance of Easter Music

Easter music holds a special place in the hearts of many, as it encapsulates the essence of renewal, hope, and joy that define the season. Rooted in centuries of tradition, Easter music ranges from solemn compositions reflecting on the sacrifice of Christ to jubilant works celebrating His resurrection. It serves not only as a form of worship but also as a means of spiritual reflection and community celebration.

Throughout history, composers have drawn inspiration from the Easter narrative, creating timeless pieces that resonate with believers and music enthusiasts alike. The music of Easter invites us to engage with the profound mystery of the resurrection, offering a soundtrack to our spiritual journey during this holy season. Whether through the uplifting strains of a hymn or the intricate harmonies of a classical work, Easter music continues to inspire and uplift, reminding us of the enduring power of faith.

We invite everyone to join us for this special Easter service, as we celebrate the resurrection of Christ. Stay tuned for the next article in our Eastertide music series, where we will continue to explore the inspiring works that enrich this sacred season.

Happy Eastertide, and may the music of Easter fill your hearts with joy and hope!

Holy Thursday

Thu, 17 Apr 2025 12:30:00 GMT

The Night Love Took a Towel

On Holy Thursday, we gather to remember the night that changed everything—not with trumpets or power, but with a towel, a basin, and a meal shared among friends.

Jesus knew the hour had come. He knew betrayal was at the door, suffering close behind. And what does He do? He kneels. He washes feet. He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it away. On the edge of darkness, Jesus chooses love.

Holy Thursday, also called Maundy Thursday, takes its name from the Latin mandatum, meaning “commandment.” “I give you a new commandment,” Jesus says, “that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another” (John 13:34, NRSV). Not a suggestion. A commandment. Love one another. Not when it’s easy. Not when it’s convenient. But always.

In the upper room, we witness three powerful acts:

The Footwashing – Jesus, the Teacher and Lord, becomes the servant. In a culture where feet were dusty and washing them was reserved for the lowest servant, Jesus flips the script. He takes on the role of the servant, washing the feet of His disciples—including the one who would betray Him. What does it mean for us to follow that example today? Whose feet are we called to wash?
The Meal – At the table, Jesus breaks bread and shares wine, saying, “This is my body… this is my blood.” The simple becomes sacred. The ordinary becomes holy. In this moment, we are invited into communion—not just with God, but with each other. Every Eucharist echoes this night: take, bless, break, give.
The Commandment – “Love as I have loved you.” A love that serves. A love that forgives. A love that stays—even when it's hard, even when it's not returned, even when it costs everything.

On Holy Thursday, we remember that the path to the cross begins with love. Not sentimentality, but a radical, embodied, sacrificial love. The kind that kneels and serves. The kind that shares a meal with friends and enemies alike. The kind that holds nothing back.

As we keep watch this Holy Week, may we not rush past this night. May we linger at the table, listen to the water being poured into the basin, feel the towel brush against our feet. May we hear again the commandment to love—really love—with our hands, our hearts, and our lives.

Because on this night, love took a towel. And love will carry the cross.

Holy "Spy" Wednesday

Wed, 16 Apr 2025 12:30:00 GMT

A Day of Dual Reflections

The Origin of Spy Wednesday

The term “Spy Wednesday” finds its roots in the biblical account of Judas Iscariot, who infamously conspired to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. On this day, Judas is believed to have met with the chief priests and outlined his plan to identify Jesus for arrest without drawing undue attention. Just as a spy would gather crucial information and covertly signal a turning point, Judas’s actions on this day marked the beginning of a chain of events that would lead to the fulfillment of prophetic scriptures.

For believers, this somber reminder is not merely an account of betrayal; it serves to illustrate the human struggle with temptation, the complexity of free will, and the profound depths of divine forgiveness. The moniker “Spy Wednesday” invites us to reflect on the darker aspects of human nature and the mysterious interplay between destiny and personal choice. It also challenges us to examine our own lives for moments where secrecy, self-interest, or miscommunication may lead us away from truth and compassion.

A Day of Dual Reflections

Holy Wednesday’s dual themes—betrayal and preparation—offer a rich tapestry for reflection. While the designation of “Spy Wednesday” draws attention to betrayal, it also sets the stage for the ultimate narrative of redemption. Here are a few reflective insights on this day:

A Reminder of Human Frailty: Judas’s covert betrayal is a stark reminder that even those closest to us can sometimes be led astray by personal ambition or fear. This recognition should foster an attitude of humility, reminding us to remain vigilant in our own moral and spiritual practices.
The Complexity of Choices: The actions of Judas compel us to ponder how individual choices, even those made in secrecy, can ripple out to create monumental consequences. In our own lives, each decision—whether small or seemingly insignificant—contributes to a larger story of hope, despair, and ultimately, redemption.
Preparation for Renewal: Amidst the somberness, Holy Wednesday encourages preparation—not just for the sorrowful events to come, but for the hope that Easter represents. It is a day to confront our own inner betrayals and lapses, to seek forgiveness, and to renew our commitment to living a life of integrity and love.

Holy Week is a time of spiritual reflection and renewal, and the lessons from Spy Wednesday can extend far beyond the confines of religious observance. Here are some ways to incorporate these reflections into everyday practice:

Mindful Self-Examination: Take time to identify any “betrayals” in your personal life—moments when you may have acted in self-interest or failed to honor your values. Journaling and meditation can be powerful tools in this process.
Forgiveness and Grace: Remember that the narrative of betrayal is inseparable from that of forgiveness. Reflect on how embracing forgiveness can transform even the most challenging situations into opportunities for personal growth and reconnection with others.
Community and Accountability: Engage in conversations with your community or trusted friends about the themes of trust, betrayal, and redemption. Collective reflection can foster accountability and lead to a deeper understanding of how each individual contributes to the broader tapestry of human relationships.
Spiritual Renewal: Use this day to recalibrate your spiritual journey. Whether through prayer, quiet reflection, or acts of service, let the lessons of Spy Wednesday inspire you to bridge the gap between human imperfection and divine compassion.

Holy Wednesday—and its alternate name, Spy Wednesday—serves as both a cautionary tale and a beacon of hope. It challenges us to confront the reality of betrayal, whether by others or within ourselves, while also pointing us toward the boundless possibilities of redemption and renewal. As you navigate this sacred time, let the dual legacy of this day inspire you to seek forgiveness, uphold truth, and embrace the hope that comes from a heart willing to grow.

May your Holy Wednesday be filled with quiet insight, honest reflection, and the promise of renewal as you journey toward the joy and resurrection of Easter.

The Good Friday Offering

Tue, 15 Apr 2025 14:41:43 GMT

An Emergency Appeal for the Anglican Hospital in Gaza

On Palm Sunday, the Anglican Hospital in Gaza, run by the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem, was hit by two airstrikes. Following the century-long tradition of the Episcopal Church to collect a special offering for the Church in Jerusalem on Good Friday, we will have a special offering in answer to this emergency appeal. I commend to you the recent letter from our Bishop.

The Good Friday Offering

for the Church in Jerusalem

Palm Sunday

13 April 2025

Dear Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

Today, on the Sunday of the Passion, which we call Palm Sunday, the Anglican Hospital in Gaza, which is run by the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem, was hit by two Israeli airstrikes. This is the fifth bombing of the hospital since the war began in October 2023. Our sisters and brothers are living in our own day the suffering of Jesus.

There was a great deal of destruction, but fortunately no one was hurt. However, the Israeli army gave only 20 minutes’ warning for an evacuation, and as a consequence a child, who was being treated for a head wound from a different incident, died because of the rushed evacuation.

The Archbishop in Jerusalem has issued a renewed call for all people of good will to intervene with their governments to end the violence, war, killing, and displacement.

For over a century the Episcopal Church has asked the faithful to collect a special offering for the Church in Jerusalem on Good Friday. All across the Church every year our congregations collect as much money that we can for our sisters and brothers in Jerusalem, and this year they need our help more than ever.

Therefore I am making this special appeal to all our clergy and people to pay special attention to this offering this year. Please ensure that this collection happens, and that the money is sent to the American Friends of the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem www.afedj.org . If you can add more money to your collection from another source, please do that. If you would like to make a personal gift, do that, too. Our sisters and brothers need our financial help today more than ever, and this Good Friday Offering is the best way to help and to show our solidarity. I hope that all our communities are able to make a contribution, however modest, to support our fellow Episcopalians in the Holy Land.

May God give us peace, much peace.

With love and prayers,

+Peter

Holy "Fig" Tuesday

Mon, 14 Apr 2025 13:56:26 GMT

A Holy Pause in the Journey to the Cross

As Holy Week unfolds, each day carries with it a particular tone and focus, leading us deeper into the mystery of Jesus’ final days. While Palm Sunday and Good Friday often receive the most attention, Holy Tuesday—sometimes known as Fig Tuesday—offers a profound invitation to reflect on the heart of discipleship, the call to fruitfulness, and the necessity of honest self-examination.

The name Fig Tuesday comes from an event recounted in the Gospels, particularly in Matthew 21 and Mark 11, when Jesus encounters a fig tree on his way into Jerusalem. Finding it barren, though in leaf, he curses it. This strange and unsettling moment has perplexed readers for centuries—but within it lies a deep spiritual challenge.

The fig tree, lush in appearance but fruitless upon inspection, becomes a symbol of religious hypocrisy—of outward appearances without the inward substance. In the context of Holy Week, this moment is less about agriculture and more about authenticity. Jesus isn’t merely disappointed by a tree; he’s calling out a form of life that looks good on the outside but bears no fruit for the kingdom of God.

On Fig Tuesday, we’re asked to look inward.

Are we bearing fruit in our lives of faith?
Are we offering love, mercy, and justice—or just going through the motions?

The cursing of the fig tree is immediately followed by Jesus cleansing the temple and teaching through parables that expose the religious leaders’ failure to live into the heart of God’s law. It’s not about legalism—it’s about fruitfulness. Jesus calls his followers not to mere belief or performance, but to a way of life that produces real change, healing, and wholeness for others.

Lessons from the Fig Tree

1. Authenticity Matters

Jesus confronts systems—and people—that prioritize appearances over substance. Fig Tuesday reminds us that a thriving spiritual life isn’t about looking holy; it’s about being rooted in God’s love and bearing the fruit of that love in our relationships, decisions, and daily actions.

2. Fruit Takes Time—But It Also Takes Intention

Fruitfulness in the life of faith doesn’t happen automatically. It requires cultivating the soil of the heart, practicing spiritual disciplines, and being open to pruning—those sometimes uncomfortable moments of correction and growth.

3. Judgment as a Form of Grace

The story of the fig tree can feel harsh. But in the biblical tradition, judgment is not simply condemnation—it’s a call to transformation. Jesus’ act is meant to wake us up, not to shame us. It’s an invitation to examine our lives and return to the source of life.

Holy Tuesday is a liminal day. The hosannas of Palm Sunday have faded, and the shadows of betrayal and suffering are beginning to fall. It is a day that calls us into deeper reflection, before the full weight of the Passion descends.

In many liturgical traditions, Holy Tuesday includes Gospel readings where Jesus teaches in parables, confronts the authorities, and urges his disciples to stay awake and be ready. These teachings, coupled with the story of the fig tree, challenge us to assess our own readiness—not with fear, but with purpose.

In a world where performance and image often take precedence, the invitation of Fig Tuesday is as timely as ever. Here are a few ways to live into its wisdom:

Examine Your Fruit
Take a moment to reflect: What fruit is your life producing? Is it love, patience, generosity, and compassion—or something else?
Cut Away What’s Unfruitful
Are there habits, patterns, or distractions that are taking up space in your life but not bearing any fruit? Lent—and Holy Tuesday in particular—is a time to prune with purpose.
Root Yourself Again in God
Just as a tree cannot bear fruit apart from good soil and water, we cannot flourish apart from God’s grace. Return to prayer, Scripture, and community. These are your roots.
Choose Substance Over Show
Resist the temptation to perform your faith. Instead, let it be deeply real—even if it’s imperfect. God doesn’t call us to perfection, but to growth.

Holy Tuesday, or Fig Tuesday, is not just about judgment—it’s about the possibility of renewal. It asks the hard questions, but it also opens the door to transformation. If we are willing to be honest about the ways we fall short, God is always ready to meet us with grace.

The good news is this: even if our branches are bare, God is not done with us. The Gardener is near. And new fruit is always possible.

So today, pause. Reflect. Tend your soil. And trust that, even in the quiet tension of Fig Tuesday, new life is stirring.

Holy Monday

Mon, 14 Apr 2025 12:30:01 GMT

A Disruptive Love

“Jesus entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling things there…” – Luke 19:45 (NRSV)

On Holy Monday, we remember Jesus entering the temple and turning over the tables of the money changers. It is a jarring image—Jesus, the Prince of Peace, taking bold and disruptive action.

This moment is not about anger for anger’s sake. It is about love—God’s fierce love for justice, for truth, and for people who are being exploited in holy spaces. Jesus wasn’t just flipping tables; he was flipping the expectations of what religion should look like. He was clearing space so that the temple might once again become a house of prayer for all people.

Holy Monday reminds us that sometimes love disrupts. Sometimes love says, “This is not okay.” Sometimes love speaks truth to power, even when it’s costly. As we journey through this week, we are invited to examine our own lives and the institutions we’re part of. Are there tables in our hearts that need overturning? Are there practices in our churches or communities that keep others from drawing near to God?

Let us walk with Christ into Holy Week not just as observers, but as participants—willing to be changed, willing to be challenged, willing to be made new.

The Significance of Palm/Passion Sunday

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 10 Apr 2025 14:19:47 GMT

The Significance of Palm/Passion Sunday: A Journey from Triumph to Sacrifice

As we continue our exploration of music during the Lent season, we arrive at a pivotal moment: Palm/Passion Sunday. This day is marked by contrasting emotions and serves as both the culmination of Lent and the beginning of Holy Week. It is a day that invites us to reflect deeply on the dual themes of celebration and sacrifice.

On Palm Sunday, churches around the world commemorate Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Traditionally, the service begins outside, as congregants gather with palm branches in hand, echoing the jubilant cries of "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" One of the hymns often sung during this part of the service is "All Glory, Laud, and Honor," which captures the joyous spirit and reverence of the day.

The procession into the church is a symbol of the journey from the jubilant streets of Jerusalem to the somber path of the Passion. As we enter the church, the mood shifts. This transition marks the beginning of the Passion narrative, where the focus moves from celebration to contemplation of the impending sacrifice of Jesus.

Music plays a crucial role in this transition. The triumphant hymns of Palm Sunday give way to more somber and reflective music, setting the tone for the Passion of our Lord. "Ah, Holy Jesus" is one such hymn that is often sung during this part of the service, guiding the congregation into a deep reflection on the events of Christ’s final days and the solemnity of the sacrifice He is about to make.

The liturgy of Palm/Passion Sunday invites us to hold these contrasting emotions in tension. It reminds us that the joy of Jesus' kingship cannot be separated from the suffering he endured for our salvation. It is a day of paradox, where triumph and tragedy coexist, and through music, we are guided to a deeper understanding of this profound mystery.

As we move from the joyous procession to the solemn reflections of the Passion, may the music of Palm/Passion Sunday enrich our journey through Holy Week, preparing our hearts for the ultimate message of hope and redemption that Easter brings.

Palm Sunday and the Weight of Expectations

Sun, 06 Apr 2025 12:16:05 GMT

Hosanna Today, Crucify Tomorrow

They shouted “Hosanna!”

They waved their palm branches.

They laid down their cloaks as a sign of honor and welcome.

Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey—not a warhorse, not in chariots of gold, but humbly. And yet, the crowds celebrated him like a king. Why?

Because they had expectations.

Palm Sunday is a day full of pageantry and paradox. On one hand, we join the crowds in welcoming Jesus. We process with palms, we sing “Hosanna,” and we mark the beginning of Holy Week with beauty and hope. But if we pause long enough, we might sense something deeper stirring—a tension beneath the celebration.

The people expected a Messiah who would overthrow Roman rule. Someone who would restore Israel’s political power and usher in a new golden age. They wanted a conqueror, not a suffering servant. A king of power, not a man destined for a cross.

And so their “Hosannas” would turn to “Crucify him!” by the end of the week.

Why? Because Jesus didn’t meet their expectations.

He didn’t come to fulfill their vision. He came to reveal God’s.

That same dynamic is alive today.

We all carry expectations—of God, of faith, of others, of ourselves. We expect God to answer our prayers the way we want. We expect church to feel comfortable, predictable, affirming of our preferences. We expect our spiritual lives to move from strength to strength, rather than wilderness to wilderness.

But Palm Sunday invites us to ask:

What happens when God doesn’t meet our expectations?
What do we do when Jesus turns out to be more challenging than comforting?
Are we willing to follow him, not just to Jerusalem, but to the cross?

Jesus didn’t come to meet the crowd’s expectations. He came to upend them.

He came to show that true kingship looks like servanthood.

That true victory looks like sacrifice.

That true power is found not in domination, but in love poured out.

Palm Sunday isn’t just a joyful parade—it’s the beginning of a journey through misunderstanding, betrayal, pain, and ultimately, resurrection. But we can’t rush ahead to Easter. Not yet.

We must sit with our expectations. Name them. Examine them. Offer them up.

Because if we only follow a Jesus who meets our expectations, we might miss the real Jesus—the one who transforms us not by confirming our assumptions, but by shattering them in grace.

So this Palm Sunday, wave your palm branch. Sing your hosanna. But let that cry also be a prayer:

“Save us—not just from the world, but from our limited expectations of you.”
“Come, not as we want, but as we need.”
“Lead us, even if the way leads through the cross.” Amen.

Holy Week Services at Sts. MM&M

Thu, 03 Apr 2025 15:34:01 GMT

From Palm Sunday through Easter: A Journey of Love and Redemption

Service Times

April 13th, Palm Sunday, 8:30 am & 10:30 am (English), 12:30 pm (Spanish)
April 17th, Maundy Thursday, 7:00 pm (Bi-Lingual)
April 18th, Good Friday, 8:00 am (English), 7:00 pm (Bi-Lingual): Mediation Offered at Noon
April 19th, The Great Vigil of Easter, 7:00 pm (Bi-Lingual)
April 20th, Easter Sunday, 10:00 am (English) Easter Egg Hunt and Brunch afterwards, 12:30 pm (Spanish)

Walking Through Holy Week: A Journey of Love and Redemption

Holy Week is the most sacred time of the Christian year, inviting us to walk with Christ through his passion, death, and resurrection. Each service immerses us in the unfolding drama of our salvation, calling us to deeper faith and reflection.

Palm Sunday – The Triumphal Entry

We begin with shouts of "Hosanna!" as we recall Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, greeted as a king. Yet the same crowd that welcomes him will soon call for his crucifixion. Palm Sunday sets the stage for Holy Week’s tension between triumph and suffering, reminding us that true kingship is found in humility and sacrifice.

Maundy Thursday – The Commandment to Love

On this night, Jesus gathers with his disciples for the Last Supper, giving us the Eucharist and the commandment to love one another. We also remember his act of humble service in washing their feet. The service ends in darkness as the altar is stripped, marking Jesus' betrayal and abandonment.

Good Friday – The Cross and Our Redemption

We stand at the foot of the cross, witnessing the depths of God’s love. Through solemn prayers, scripture, and veneration of the cross, we remember Christ’s suffering and death. This stark and somber service invites us into the mystery of redemption—God’s love poured out even in the face of violence and rejection.

The Great Vigil of Easter – Light in the Darkness

This is the Church’s most ancient and dramatic liturgy. We begin in darkness, hearing the great story of salvation, from creation to resurrection. Then, the first light of Easter breaks forth as we proclaim, “Alleluia! Christ is risen!” It is a night of baptism, renewal, and rejoicing—the moment when death is shattered, and new life begins.

Easter Sunday – The Joy of Resurrection

With the empty tomb before us, we celebrate the victory of life over death! Easter Sunday is the culmination of our journey, affirming that love has the final word. We rejoice in Christ’s resurrection and our call to share this good news with the world.

As we walk through Holy Week, may we open our hearts to the mystery of God’s love, journeying from the cross to the empty tomb with faith and hope.

Would you like me to add anything, such as specific hymns or scripture references?

Hymns of Lent: Exploring "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing"

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 03 Apr 2025 14:25:49 GMT

Exploring "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" and the Nettleton Tune

As we continue our Lenten journey, delving into the rich tapestry of hymns that have inspired believers for generations, this week, we turn our attention to the beloved hymn "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." This hymn, paired with the equally cherished Nettleton tune, carries with it a profound sense of grace and thanksgiving that resonates deeply with the themes of Lent.

Originally penned by Robert Robinson in 1758, "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" has stood the test of time, offering a poignant reflection on the divine grace that pours into our lives. Robinson, who wrote these verses shortly after experiencing a spiritual conversion, infused the hymn with a raw honesty about the human struggle with faith and the joy of divine redemption.

The Nettleton tune, attributed to John Wyeth, pairs harmoniously with Robinson's words. Its lively and flowing melody enhances the hymn's message of gratitude and supplication. The tune's popularity across various denominations is a testament to its universal appeal and its ability to elevate the hymn's themes, making "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" a cherished choice for Lent.

As you meditate on this hymn, consider its lines that urge us to "tune our hearts to sing Thy grace." They remind us of the importance of aligning our lives with God's purpose, especially during this reflective season. The imagery of "streams of mercy never ceasing" calls us to acknowledge the ceaseless and abundant grace that sustains us even in our wandering.

We invite you to share the hymns that stir your heart as we approach Eastertide. Whether it's a timeless classic or a modern composition, your suggestions will enrich our communal worship experience. Please feel free to communicate your favorite Easter hymns with me through email or by speaking to me between services Sunday.

May these hymns continue to be a source of inspiration and spiritual renewal for you during this sacred time.

Blessings,

Andrew Butler

Director of Music

andrew.butler@stmmcs.net

Redefining Success

Mon, 31 Mar 2025 12:23:57 GMT

Holding Achievements Lightly in Christ

We live in a world that values success. Degrees, careers, social status, and personal accomplishments are celebrated and, in many ways, rightly so. Hard work, education, and dedication are good things. Yet, in Philippians 3:4b-14, Paul offers a striking perspective: even the best of our worldly achievements pale in comparison to knowing Christ. Does this mean that success, status, and achievement are bad? Not at all. But Paul calls us to a radical reorientation of our priorities.

Paul had every reason to boast by the world’s standards. He was born into the right lineage, educated in the best traditions, and followed the law zealously. If righteousness came through human effort, he would have been at the top. But in his encounter with Christ, Paul realized that all of this—his pedigree, his accomplishments, his status—was loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus. He didn’t say those things were inherently bad; rather, he recognized that if they became the foundation of his identity, they could keep him from what mattered most.

This is an important message for us today. Achievements and status can be gifts when used wisely—they can open doors for service, provide opportunities to help others, and allow us to live with dignity. But if they become the core of our worth, they can become obstacles rather than blessings. When success defines us, we risk measuring our value by external standards rather than by God’s love.

Paul’s words remind us to hold achievements lightly and to keep our ultimate focus on Christ. He speaks of pressing on, not to accumulate more earthly accolades, but to take hold of that for which Christ took hold of him. His goal is not self-promotion but participation in Christ’s life, even to the point of sharing in His sufferings and resurrection.

So how do we live this out? We don’t have to abandon ambition, but we do have to surrender it to God. We can strive for excellence, but we must always ask: Am I pursuing this for my own glory or for God’s? We can celebrate success, but we must remember that our truest identity is not found in titles or trophies, but in being beloved children of God.

Renouncing worldly status does not mean rejecting everything the world values. It means holding all things in their proper place, knowing that in the end, the only lasting achievement is to be found in Christ.

Continuing Our Lenten Journey with Taizé

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 27 Mar 2025 18:52:16 GMT

A Special Taizé Service This Sunday

As we progress through our Lenten journey, we continue to explore the depth and breadth of spiritual enrichment through music and reflection. This Sunday, we invite you to join us for a special Taizé style service, a serene and contemplative worship experience that perfectly aligns with the reflective nature of the Lenten season.

A Brief History of the Taizé Community

The Taizé community was founded in 1940 by Brother Roger Schütz in the small village of Taizé, France. During World War II, Brother Roger sought to create a sanctuary for those affected by war, offering refuge and community to those in need. This vision of peace and reconciliation laid the foundation for what would become a global ecumenical community.

Over the decades, Taizé has grown into a symbol of unity and hope, drawing thousands of young people from all over the world to participate in its worship and communal life. The community is characterized by its commitment to peace, simplicity, and a spirit of togetherness, transcending denominational and cultural boundaries.

The Beauty of Taizé Worship

The unique aspect of Taizé worship is its simple yet profound musical form. Its repetitive chants and meditative songs create a peaceful ambiance that encourages introspection and spiritual connection. These chants, often sung in multiple languages, are designed to be accessible to all, regardless of musical ability, fostering a communal spirit of worship.

Our service will incorporate some of the most cherished Taizé chants, accompanied by instrumental music, and moments of silence for personal meditation. This blend of elements is intended to help you connect with your inner spirituality and foster a deeper understanding of your faith journey.

As we gather together, let us embrace the quiet beauty of this worship style and open our hearts to renewal and grace. Whether you are familiar with Taizé or experiencing it for the first time, we hope this service will be a meaningful part of your Lenten observance.

We look forward to sharing this sacred time with you and hope you will leave feeling refreshed and spiritually uplifted.

Celebrating Jane Collin and Roger Vance

Wed, 26 Mar 2025 18:05:02 GMT

Congratulations! Celebrating Jane Collin and Roger Vance and their ministry!

Celebrating Jane Collin and Roger Vance!

We are overjoyed to share some wonderful news about two members of our Sts. Mary Magdalene & Martin family who have recently achieved well-deserved recognition.

First, a huge congratulations to Jane Collin , who has been selected as a winner of the Lynne Johnson Volunteer Award in the category of Working With Youth! This honor is a testament to Jane’s dedication to serving young people through our ministry with the Coral Springs Police Department Summer Camp . Her commitment to mentoring, guiding, and uplifting the next generation has made a profound impact, and we are so proud that she is being recognized for her service. Jane will receive this award on April 16th , and we celebrate with her in gratitude for all she does!

We also extend our heartfelt congratulations to Roger Vance , who has successfully completed his Verger Course ! In the Episcopal Church, a verger is a lay minister who assists in the organization and smooth execution of liturgical services, often working behind the scenes to ensure worship is conducted with reverence and order. Roger’s dedication to this role reflects his deep commitment to our worshiping community, and we look forward to celebrating his installation as Verger soon—stay tuned for more details!

Please join us in congratulating Jane and Roger on these remarkable achievements. Their service and dedication continue to bless our parish and the wider community.

Rediscovering Grace Beyond our Expectations

Mon, 24 Mar 2025 12:00:16 GMT

The Two Lost Sons

Title: The Two Lost Sons: Rediscovering Grace Beyond Our Expectations

When you first read the Parable of the Prodigal Son, who do you think the lost son is? Most of us immediately picture the younger son—the one who demands his inheritance, squanders it in a far-off land, and finally returns in desperation. But have you ever stopped to wonder if the elder son might be lost, too?

Originally told by Jesus to an audience of tax collectors, sinners, and self-righteous Pharisees, this parable was a radical invitation. The religious leaders were scandalized by Jesus welcoming outcasts and showing them grace. In response, Jesus shared three stories, ending with the lost son, to challenge their understanding of forgiveness and love.

At first glance, the younger son’s journey from rebellion to redemption is dramatic and touching. Yet, when we look closer, the elder son—who stayed at home and followed all the rules—reveals another kind of loss. His bitterness and refusal to join the celebration expose a heart closed off by pride and entitlement. Though he never left home, he lost his way spiritually by believing that his loyalty and hard work could buy him favor.

The parable leaves the elder son’s response unresolved. This open ending is a direct invitation for each of us to examine our own hearts. Are we, too, standing outside the feast—unwilling to celebrate grace that we feel we haven’t earned? Or do we embrace the free gift of love and join the communal celebration?

In our daily lives, we might identify with the younger son when we feel overwhelmed by our failures, or with the elder son when we resent others’ forgiveness or question our own worth. The beauty of this parable is that it reminds us that both kinds of loss call for a return—to humility, to openness, and ultimately, to God’s unconditional love.

Let this story challenge you today: Instead of measuring our worth by performance or self-sufficiency, can we learn to see grace as a gift available to all? The invitation remains open for anyone willing to step inside the feast of love and community.

Join the conversation—who do you see as the lost son, and how can we better embrace the grace that calls us all home?

Exploring the Hymns of Lent

obutrumpet@mac.com (Andrew Butler) — Thu, 20 Mar 2025 16:01:20 GMT

"Forty Days and Forty Nights"

As we continue our journey through the season of Lent, our exploration of the hymns that define this sacred time takes us to the poignant and reflective hymn, "Forty Days and Forty Nights." This hymn is a staple in many congregations during Lent, providing solace and reflection as we remember Christ’s time in the wilderness.

History and Origin

"Forty Days and Forty Nights" was written by George Hunt Smyttan in 1856, with the melody most commonly associated with it composed by Martin Herbst. Smyttan, an English clergyman, crafted this hymn to evoke the trials and temptations faced by Jesus Christ during his 40 days of fasting in the desert, as described in the gospels.

Thematic Elements

The hymn captures the essence of Lent through its vivid imagery and scriptural references. The lyrics remind us of Jesus’ strength and perseverance against the temptations of Satan, serving as a metaphor for our own spiritual journey during Lent. The text is rich with symbolism, relating the physical and spiritual challenges faced by Jesus to the struggles we face in our daily lives.

Musical Structure

Musically, "Forty Days and Forty Nights" is often sung to the tune of "Heinlein," a solemn and contemplative melody that perfectly complements the hymn’s introspective nature. The meter lends itself to a meditative pace, allowing congregations to reflect on each line and internalize its meaning.

Reflection and Application

Singing "Forty Days and Forty Nights" is more than just a musical experience; it is an invitation to introspection and spiritual growth. As we sing, we are called to reflect on our own lives, considering the ways we can resist temptation and grow closer to God.

"Forty Days and Forty Nights" continues to be a cherished hymn within the Lenten tradition, calling us to a deeper understanding of sacrifice, patience, and faithfulness. As we sing it this Lent, may it inspire us to live more fully in the example of Christ.

Celebrating Creativity, Community, and Empowerment

Mon, 17 Mar 2025 18:37:32 GMT

Check out one of our Grant Recipients, Scentsability Candles!

We are thrilled to share some inspiring news from our church community! Recently, we awarded grants to ScentsAbility Candles , a remarkable company created for adults with disabilities. Their dedication to creativity and empowerment shines brightly in every handcrafted candle, and we couldn’t be prouder to support their journey.

Lighting the Way with Unique Talent

ScentsAbility Candles isn’t just a business—it’s a movement. By offering hands-on workshops and creative opportunities, they empower adults with disabilities to share their talents, express themselves, and build confidence through art. Each candle tells a story of resilience and passion, illuminating the beauty of diversity in our community.

A Moment in the Spotlight

Adding to the excitement, ScentsAbility Candles was recently featured on the Today Show! The segment highlighted their innovative workshops and the meaningful impact of their work. It’s a wonderful testament to what can be achieved when community support meets creativity and determination.

Watch the Today Show feature here.

Our Commitment to Supporting Great Work

Our church community has always believed in the power of inclusion and the strength of creative expression. By awarding these grants, we aim to further nurture initiatives that empower individuals to embrace their unique abilities and share their gifts with the world. We celebrate ScentsAbility Candles for their vision and the positive impact they are making—not just in the world of artisanal crafts, but in the lives of the talented individuals behind every creation.

Join Us in Celebrating Empowerment

We invite you to learn more about this inspiring company by visiting their website at ScentsAbility.org . Whether you’re looking for a beautiful, handcrafted candle or simply want to be inspired by their story, ScentsAbility Candles is a shining example of how community support can help create brighter futures.

Together, let’s continue to support and uplift those who light our way with creativity and heart.

Thank you for being a part of our community and for sharing in the celebration of talent, perseverance, and inclusion.

I AM

Mon, 17 Mar 2025 13:27:47 GMT

God's Name and Our Calling

I AM: God's Name and Our Calling

In Exodus 3:1-15, Moses encounters the burning bush and hears the divine voice call his name. When Moses asks for God's identity, the answer comes as a mystery and a revelation: "I AM WHO I AM." This name, both profound and elusive, has shaped the faith of Israel and the Church for centuries. But what does it mean for us today, especially from an Anglican perspective?

The Name that Transcends

God’s self-revelation as "I AM" tells us that God is beyond human definition. Unlike the gods of Egypt, who were tied to specific roles and places, the God of Israel is self-existent, unchanging, and beyond time. Anglican theology, which values both mystery and reason, embraces this truth. Our faith does not seek to confine God but invites us into deeper awe and wonder.

The Faithful One in an Unfolding Story

When God identifies as "the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob" , it is a declaration of faithfulness. This is not just the God of the past but the One who remains active in history.

As Anglicans, we often speak of God’s unfolding story rather than a rigid continuity or a replacement of Israel by the Church. The Church does not erase God’s promises to Israel but is grafted into the larger story of God’s covenant faithfulness. Jesus, as the fulfillment of these promises, invites us into this ongoing mission rather than claiming exclusivity over it. We are not the end of the story, but active participants in its next chapter.

Jesus and the "I AM" Sayings

The Gospel of John deepens our understanding when Jesus echoes the divine name: “Before Abraham was, I AM” (John 8:58). Through His ministry, Jesus declares, “I am the bread of life”, “I am the good shepherd”, “I am the light of the world.” These statements reveal that in Christ, the great I AM has drawn near to us—not as an abstract idea but as a living presence.

Called by "I AM"

Like Moses, we stand on holy ground when we recognize God’s presence in our lives. And like Moses, we are not given divine knowledge simply for our own understanding but for a mission. God sends Moses to liberate His people, and Christ sends us to be agents of His kingdom.

When we hear I AM, we are reminded that God is still at work, still faithful, still calling. Our response is not just to ponder this mystery but to live it—to proclaim the presence of the eternal God in a world longing for hope.

So when we ask, "Who is God?" and "Who are we?" the answer remains the same: "I AM" —God is present, and we are called.

Turning Away from the World

Mon, 10 Mar 2025 13:05:35 GMT

A Lenten Reflectioni on Philippians 3:17-4:1

As we journey through the season of Lent, we are invited to a time of deep introspection and renewal—a season when our hearts are called to reorient our lives toward the eternal. In Philippians 3:17–4:1, the Apostle Paul challenges us to reflect on whom we choose to imitate, urging us to follow those whose lives bear the unmistakable mark of Christ’s transforming grace. In today’s modern context—where messages of materialism and fleeting pleasures are constant—this passage delivers a potent warning: be vigilant against worldly influences.

The Call to Discernment

Paul’s exhortation to “follow my example, as I follow the example of Christ” (Philippians 3:17) is not a call merely to admire his life but to engage in a process of careful discernment. In a society saturated with images and voices that celebrate the ephemeral, we are reminded to look beyond the glitter of modern success and seek the enduring light of the Gospel. The Episcopal Church’s rich liturgical heritage and Lenten reflections encourage us to filter out the clamor of worldly distractions and to find our true identity in the simplicity and truth of the cross.

A Warning Echoed in Our Times

Paul warns that those who pursue the desires of the flesh and the fleeting pleasures of the world are, in essence, “enemies of the cross” (Philippians 3:18–19). This admonition rings true in our modern era. Our culture often glorifies consumerism, endless digital engagement, and the pursuit of status symbols—all of which can divert us from our spiritual calling. Thoughtful Anglican voices, including prominent theologians like the British theologian John Stott, remind us that “the modern world can overwhelm our senses, but true peace is found only in Christ.” His insights invite us to embrace a disciplined, prayerful retreat that reclaims time and space for what is eternal.

Embracing a Countercultural Lenten Journey

Our Episcopal tradition provides abundant resources for cultivating a countercultural life. The Book of Common Prayer, Stations of the Cross and various other Lenten devotions invite us to pause and reflect: Are we being drawn into the whirlpool of consumerism, or are we being transformed by the simple, radical teachings of Christ? Lent is not solely a season of giving up, but also one of gaining—a time to exchange the allure of worldly comforts for the profound, often challenging, embrace of spiritual discipline. In this light, Paul’s call in Philippians is a resounding reminder to “stand firm in the Lord” (Philippians 4:1), finding in our communal faith a shelter from the relentless tides of modernity.

Finding Renewal in Community and Tradition

Within the Episcopal Church, the Lenten season is marked by a shared commitment to spiritual renewal. Our worship, reflective services, and personal prayer become acts of defiance against superficial cultural values. When we come together, we reinforce a countercultural narrative: that our true treasure lies not in what we accumulate but in how deeply we live out our faith. As we join in ancient chants and prayers handed down through generations, we are reminded that our journey is communal. The enduring wisdom of our Episcopal heritage offers a sturdy foundation as we navigate the distractions of modern life.

A Prayer for Clarity and Courage

In the quiet moments of this Lenten season, let us pray for the courage to discern clearly between the transient and the eternal. May we be inspired by Paul’s words and the deep spiritual legacy of the Episcopal Church to reject the seductive promises of worldly influence. Instead, may our hearts be ever fixed on the cross—a symbol of sacrifice, love, and the ultimate victory over worldly vanity.

Lord, grant us the clarity to see beyond the glitter of this world, and the courage to follow the example of Christ with unwavering devotion. In this season of Lent, help us embrace Your truth and stand firm in Your love. Amen.

Stations of the Cross, Offered Every Friday during Lent

Thu, 06 Mar 2025 19:06:48 GMT

A Lenten Devotional, from different voices...

Every Friday In the Sanctuary at 6:00 pm during Lent

The Stations of the Cross is a devotional practice that invites Christians to reflect on the final hours of Jesus Christ’s earthly life—from His condemnation to His crucifixion and burial. This tradition, often observed during Lent and especially on Good Friday, consists of fourteen stations, each depicting a specific event on Christ’s path to Calvary.

Originating in the early centuries of the Church, the Stations allowed pilgrims who could not travel to Jerusalem to experience a spiritual pilgrimage by contemplating Christ's Passion. By the Middle Ages, Franciscan friars had formalized the practice, spreading it widely across Europe. Today, many Episcopal churches, including The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, offer this devotion, often through artistic representations or outdoor pathways.

Diverse Expressions of the Stations

In recent years, various adaptations of the Stations of the Cross have emerged, inviting worshippers to engage with the Passion of Christ from different perspectives and in light of contemporary issues.

One such variation is the Stations from the Voice of Mary, which invites participants to walk the way of the cross through the eyes of Jesus’ mother, contemplating her sorrow and faith as she witnesses her son’s suffering. This approach emphasizes the humanity and heartbreak of the Passion, drawing worshippers into a deeper empathy and reflection on the cost of love.

Another powerful adaptation is the Stations of the Cross for Immigrants, which integrates the suffering of Christ with the plight of refugees and migrants today. Each station becomes an opportunity to pray for those fleeing violence, facing persecution, and enduring hardship in search of safety and hope. This version challenges believers to see Christ’s face in the marginalized and to respond with compassion and justice.

Walking the Way of Love

Each adaptation of the Stations of the Cross serves as a reminder that Christ’s Passion is not confined to history but is present wherever there is suffering, injustice, and a need for redemption. As we walk these varied paths, we are invited to see our own lives and the world’s pain through the lens of Christ’s love, courage, and ultimate victory over death.

Through these diverse expressions, the Stations of the Cross continue to be a powerful spiritual practice—one that calls us to deeper compassion, repentance, and a commitment to carrying Christ's love into the world.

Into the Wilderness

Thu, 06 Mar 2025 18:41:56 GMT

Facing Temptation with Christ

As we journey through the season of Lent, we are invited into a time of reflection, repentance, and renewal. Our Gospel reading for this Sunday from Luke 4:1-13 draws us into the wilderness with Jesus, where He faces temptation directly. This passage is not just a historical account; it is a mirror held up to our own lives, revealing the struggles we face and the path to overcoming them.

Luke tells us that Jesus, “full of the Holy Spirit,” was led into the wilderness, where He fasted for forty days and was tempted by the devil. The wilderness is not just a geographical location; it represents those seasons in our lives when we feel isolated, vulnerable, and tested. Whether it’s the wilderness of grief, uncertainty about the future, or the struggle to resist what we know is harmful, we all find ourselves there at times.

The temptations Jesus faces are strikingly relevant today: the lure of material comfort (“command this stone to become a loaf of bread”), the seduction of power and control (“to you I will give all this authority”), and the desire to test God’s love and protection (“throw yourself down from here”). These are not just personal temptations but societal ones—our culture often measures success by wealth, influence, and a kind of faith that demands proof on our terms.

What stands out in this passage is how Jesus responds. He counters each temptation not with displays of power but with the Word of God, affirming His trust in the Father’s provision, timing, and plan. In doing so, Jesus reveals that true strength is found not in asserting control but in surrendering to God’s will.

His responses also remind us that Scripture is not a weapon to wield against others but a source of truth to anchor ourselves in times of trial. As Episcopalians, we hold to the practice of reading and praying through Scripture, allowing it to shape us. This passage challenges us to deepen our engagement with God’s Word—not just for knowledge but for transformation.

It’s significant that Jesus’ time in the wilderness comes right after His baptism, where He is declared God’s beloved Son, and just before His public ministry begins. The wilderness, then, is a place of preparation and clarity. For us, too, times of temptation and struggle can become opportunities to clarify our identity and calling.

Henri Nouwen once wrote, “We are not what we do, what we have, or what others think of us. We are the beloved children of God.” This truth, proclaimed at Jesus’ baptism and reaffirmed in the wilderness, is what enables us to resist the voices that tell us we are not enough, that we need to prove our worth.

This passage invites us to reflect on our own wilderness experiences. What voices are we listening to? Where are we tempted to seek security outside of God? And how might we, like Jesus, hold fast to the truth of who we are—beloved, called, and sent into the world?

In a society that often equates power with domination and worth with wealth, following Jesus means embracing a different kind of strength: one rooted in humility, trust, and sacrificial love. As we continue through Lent, may we find the courage to follow Him—not around the wilderness, but through it—trusting that God’s Spirit is with us every step of the way.

Questions for Reflection:

What “wilderness” are you experiencing in your life right now?
How might you use Scripture to counter the voices of fear, inadequacy, or pride?
In what ways can you embody Christ’s trust in God’s provision and timing?

May this Lenten season deepen our trust in God’s love and lead us to new places of faithfulness and hope.

Ash Wednesday

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 15:31:19 GMT

A Mark of our Need for Renewal

Ash Wednesday invites us to pause and reflect on our human fragility and the profound need for renewal. In Joel 2:1-2,12-17, we hear a stirring call to repentance—a plea for a heartfelt return to God marked by fasting, weeping, and sincere contrition. This cry resonates deeply on Ash Wednesday, where the symbol of the ash reminds us of our mortality and the transient nature of life.

Similarly, in Matthew 6:1-6,16-21, Jesus teaches us about the true essence of spiritual practices. He warns against performing acts of piety for public acclaim, urging us instead to embrace a private and honest relationship with God. Our fasting and prayers, when done with humility, become a treasured conversation with the Divine—a way to store up eternal treasures in our hearts.

Together, these passages guide us on Ash Wednesday to examine our lives, clear our clutter of superficial ambitions, and focus on a genuine, humble walk with God. They remind us that repentance is not just about shedding old habits but opening our hearts to transformation and renewal during Lent and beyond.

Lifting The Veil

Tue, 25 Feb 2025 16:12:22 GMT

Removing Barriers to Deeper Relationships with God and One Another

In both the Old and New Testaments, the motif of the veil carries deep symbolic significance. In Exodus 34:29-35 , we read how Moses, after speaking with God, covered his face with a veil because the Israelites were afraid of the radiance that remained. Later, in 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2 , Paul expands this imagery, speaking of a veil that remains over people’s hearts, preventing them from fully seeing and embracing the freedom found in Christ.

These passages invite us to reflect on the veils in our own lives—not physical coverings but the barriers we place between ourselves, others, and God. These veils can be fear, shame, resentment, pride, or any number of things that keep us from true connection. We may not realize it, but we often choose to hide, just as Adam and Eve did in the garden, instead of standing openly before God and one another in love and trust.

Why Do We Wear Veils?

Moses’ veil served a purpose—it shielded the Israelites from a glory they were not yet ready to face. But Paul makes clear that in Christ, there is no need for such a barrier. Yet, so often, we keep veils over our own hearts. We create distance, we protect ourselves from vulnerability, and we build walls rather than bridges.

Some of the veils we use to shield ourselves include:

1. The Veil of Fear

Fear is one of the most powerful barriers between us and meaningful relationships. We fear rejection, so we keep our true selves hidden. We fear vulnerability, so we only let others see the carefully curated versions of our lives. We fear God’s call, so we keep our faith at a comfortable distance, avoiding anything that might challenge or change us.

But Paul tells us, “Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” (2 Corinthians 3:17). True love—divine and human—cannot flourish where fear rules.

2. The Veil of Shame

Shame convinces us that if people (or God) knew the truth about us—our past, our struggles, our weaknesses—they would turn away. So, we hide. We cover up our wounds, pretending we are fine. We keep our prayers shallow, afraid of bringing our full selves before God.

But Jesus does not call perfect people; he calls real people. Again and again in Scripture, we see God meeting people in their brokenness, not in their perfection. When we remove the veil of shame, we make space for healing and authentic love.

3. The Veil of Busyness and Distraction

It is easy to stay busy. It is easy to fill every moment with tasks, entertainment, or social media. But sometimes, our distractions are veils we place over deeper longings. We avoid stillness because in stillness, we might have to face our grief, our loneliness, or God’s voice calling us to something greater.

Paul urges us, “Since it is by God's mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart. We have renounced the shameful things that one hides; we refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God’s word” (2 Corinthians 4:1-2). Removing the veil of distraction means making space for what is real and true.

4. The Veil of Pride and Judgment

Sometimes the veil we wear is not one of fear or shame, but of pride. We keep others at a distance by assuming we already know their story, their motives, or their worth. We convince ourselves that we are right and they are wrong.

But pride and judgment do not bring us closer to God or one another. They isolate us. Jesus constantly broke through this kind of barrier, seeking out those who had been cast aside, calling people to a deeper humility and love. When we remove the veil of pride, we allow ourselves to truly see and be seen.

The Invitation to Remove the Veil

Paul tells us that “when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed” (2 Corinthians 3:16). This is not just about seeing God more clearly; it is about seeing ourselves and one another more clearly as well.

To live as people of unveiled hearts means:

Choosing vulnerability over fear —letting people see the real us and trusting in the love of God.
Choosing honesty over shame —bringing our full selves before God and others without pretense.
Choosing presence over distraction —making time for real relationships and for God’s voice.
Choosing humility over judgment —looking at others with the eyes of grace, not superiority.

When Moses removed his veil, the Israelites could see the glory of God. When we remove our veils, we allow the love of God to shine more fully in and through us. In Christ, we are called to live boldly, freely, and openly—not as people who hide, but as people who reflect God’s light in all we do.

So let us ask ourselves: What veils are we still holding onto? And what would it mean to finally let them go?

A Fishing Story

motherdiana@stmmcs.net (Diana Garcia) — Wed, 19 Feb 2025 13:46:51 GMT

Take the boat out into the deep part of the lake and let down your nets to catch fish

Luke's Gospel tells us a fishing story.

Peter and his friends were experienced fishermen. They must have been discouraged because they knew that if they had caught nothing all night, it was better not to try again until the next day. But Jesus came and told them to go back out and fish again.

They could not ignore this advice; after all, Jesus was their teacher. They had seen Him do impossible things. That is why they must have thought:
"Maybe He is right this time too? How can we not trust Him after seeing Him work miracles?"

The reading does not mention them having any doubts; they quickly responded and went out to sea with their boats. We know what happened next: the catch was so abundant that the boats almost sank. But the story does not end there. Peter, witnessing the miracle, fell to his knees and said to Jesus,
"Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!"

But Jesus, instead of turning away, asked him to come even closer and invited him to be part of His mission:

"Do not be afraid; from now on, you will fish for people."

And he did!

Not only Peter but also James and John. And with them, all of us who have dedicated our lives to bringing the Good News of hope in the risen Christ throughout the centuries. And I do not refer only to bishops, priests, or deacons, but to everyone who has been baptized with the Holy Spirit.

We all receive Jesus’ invitation. An invitation that is renewed every time He sees us discouraged, even overwhelmed by a world that seems to turn its back on what we consider important and fundamental Christian teachings.

Moments like the present, in which society seems to be moving away from the values we aspire to. Moving away from all we long to achieve so that this world may be more dignified and just for all. Today, we pray and speak of peace in the middle of a society filled with conflict. We speak of solidarity in a divided humanity. We speak of mercy while others speak of hate. A world where nationalism calls for hardened geographic and cultural borders for anyone considered different in any way.

This brings up many questions:

How can we be fishers of people in waters without fish? In waters of darkness?
How can we fish for the Kingdom of God amid so many voices of hate?
How do we cast our nets in waters increasingly empty of higher values, where mercy no longer guides our society?

We live in a show of terror and darkness, where love seems forgotten, where the only thing that seems to matter is how many followers you have on social media and how many likes your posts get. Where almost everything is reduced to a short X sentence or a 10-second reel because what is not named on social media does not exist. A society in which what does not generate profit is worth little or nothing. A society like waters without fish. An "age of emptiness," where the past or the future don’t matter. All that matters is the here and now, captured in the virtual world.

But Peter and his friends trusted Jesus and stopped believing in the empty sea. They placed their trust in the One who can fill all the seas.

In the God of Israel, who had spoken centuries before through the prophet Isaiah and who, since then, has invited us to carry God's message: "Whom shall I send? Who will be my messenger?"

Today, Jesus reminds us of this invitation and opens a door of hope for everyone: Go and tell them that things can be different, that God brings strength in weakness, hope in fear, and boundless love for each of us. We cannot just sit and keep lamenting all the problems. We cannot settle for a society that seems increasingly closed to the message of love, lost in the labyrinths of injustice and conflict. Let us go out to fish in "deeper waters." Go where the world shows its darkest face, where there is more loneliness, despair, need, abandonment, poverty, marginalization, and exclusion, and let us be bearers of light, love, and justice. Bearers of hope. Bearers of mercy.

It is up to us to decide whether we give up or renew our faith in the One who can make all things new. It is up to us to decide whether we remain silent or respond to Jesus' call and cast our nets of compassion, solidarity, and reconciliation. It is a great challenge... Let us not remain on the shores of the world's empty seas but put our trust in God and venture into the deep waters.

Because that is where our Lord wants us to be "fishers of people." So let us raise our hands and respond to the Lord with confidence: "Here I am, send me."

Amen.

Loving Others in a Digital Age

Tue, 18 Feb 2025 16:30:57 GMT

How Luke 6:27-38 Guides Our Conversations Online and in Politics

"But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you." — Luke 6:27-28 (NRSV)

In our increasingly polarized world, where conversations—especially on social media—can quickly turn hostile, Jesus’ words in Luke 6:27-38 feel both challenging and necessary. We live in a time when political discourse is often defined by division, outrage, and the temptation to dehumanize those with whom we disagree. As followers of Christ, how can we apply his radical command to love our enemies in our digital interactions and political conversations?

1. Choosing Love Over Contempt

Jesus calls us to love, not just those who agree with us, but also those who oppose us. Online spaces often encourage the opposite—shaming, mocking, and silencing those we see as ideological enemies. But love is not about winning arguments or proving a point; it is about seeing the image of God in another person. Before responding to a post or comment that angers us, we can pause and ask: Am I responding with love? Am I treating this person as a beloved child of God?

2. Doing Good, Even When It’s Difficult

It’s easy to return insult for insult, but Jesus calls us to a higher standard: “Do good to those who hate you.” ( Luke 6:27 ). In the realm of politics, this might mean refusing to engage in name-calling, resisting the urge to share misleading information about opponents, or even reaching out to those with whom we disagree to seek understanding rather than division. Doing good does not mean avoiding difficult conversations, but it does mean engaging with honesty, integrity, and a willingness to listen.

3. Blessing, Not Cursing

Social media thrives on outrage. Posts that are angry or controversial tend to get the most engagement. But Jesus invites us to a different approach: “Bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” ( Luke 6:28 ). Instead of reacting with hostility, we can commit to praying for those who anger us, not in a condescending way, but in a way that sincerely seeks their well-being. What would happen if, instead of writing off those we disagree with, we genuinely prayed for them? Not that they would be proven wrong, but that they would experience God’s love and guidance just as we hope to.

4. Practicing the Golden Rule in Our Discourse

Luke 6:31 reminds us, “Do to others as you would have them do to you.” If we desire to be understood, respected, and heard, then we must extend that same grace to others. This doesn’t mean compromising on truth or ignoring injustice, but it does mean engaging in ways that reflect the character of Christ—seeking common ground where possible and speaking truth in love.

5. Radical Generosity in Our Interactions

Jesus’ words about generosity in Luke 6:35-38 are often interpreted in financial terms, but they can also apply to how we engage in conversations. Are we generous in assuming good intentions? Are we willing to give the benefit of the doubt rather than assuming the worst? Are we quick to forgive and slow to take offense? The measure we use—whether in judgment, patience, or mercy—will be measured back to us.

Living as Christ’s Witnesses Online and in Politics

In a time of division, followers of Christ have an opportunity to witness to the Gospel by how we engage in public discourse. Loving our enemies does not mean agreeing with them, nor does it mean remaining silent in the face of injustice. It does mean that our words and actions should reflect the love, mercy, and grace of Christ.

So before we send that tweet, post that comment, or engage in that debate, let’s ask ourselves: Am I living out the love of Christ in this moment? Our words have power—let’s use them to build up rather than tear down, to seek reconciliation rather than destruction, and to love as Christ first loved us.

My new favorite Saint, Mother Maria of Paris

Mon, 03 Feb 2025 15:36:23 GMT

A Saint of Open Doors, Bold Faith, and Unwavering Compassion

At our clergy retreat last week, I was introduced to the extraordinary life of Mother Maria of Paris—a saint whose vibrant humanity and resolute commitment to God has made her one of my favorite saints. Born Elizaveta Pilenko in 1891 in Russia, she was raised in a time of significant social and political upheaval. Elizaveta was initially a poet and writer, and she embraced the intellectual and cultural movements of her time. However, the suffering and hardship brought on by the Russian Revolution deeply affected her, and over time, she began to feel a call to serve others more directly. This call ultimately led her to renounce her former life and take on the monastic name Maria.

Elizaveta’s journey from Russian society to monastic life was marked by a desire to serve the marginalized and to live out her faith in a tangible, visible way. After the Russian Revolution, she fled to Europe and eventually made her way to Paris, where she became a part of the Russian Orthodox émigré community. In Paris, Mother Maria’s work took on a new form—she focused her energy on providing aid and shelter to the most vulnerable, particularly refugees, the poor, and those displaced by war. Her ministry was grounded in a radical sense of hospitality, rooted in the belief that every person, regardless of their background or circumstance, is an icon of God.

In Paris, she was known for her tireless work among the marginalized. Each day, Mother Maria would make her way to Les Halles, the bustling market of Paris, where she would either beg for food or purchase what had not been donated. She was well known as the “cigarette-smoking beggar nun” among the vendors and would return to her home with sacks filled with bones, fish, and overripe fruit and vegetables. Her daily life was as much about meeting people where they were as it was about feeding the hungry. Her ministry was not about charity from a distance, but about a radical engagement with the world around her, a deep commitment to embodying the incarnational love of Christ.

One of Mother Maria’s most powerful teachings was encapsulated in her statement:

"Give from the heart since each person is the very icon of God in the world."

For her, giving wasn’t just about the material act of giving; it was an invitation to recognize the divine presence in every person we encounter. She believed that every human being, no matter their station or circumstance, bore the image of God. This perspective aligned deeply with our Anglican theology of the incarnation—that God became flesh in Jesus Christ and continues to be present in the world through the lives of His people.

Her ministry in Paris was not just about providing for the physical needs of the poor, but also about creating a space where everyone, no matter how forgotten or broken, could experience God’s love. Her open door to all, and her willingness to engage in even the most ordinary, humble activities, were expressions of a deeply incarnational faith. She often mingled with the working-class and marginalized, living alongside them in a way that embodied Christ’s call to be present with those most in need.

During World War II, Mother Maria's ministry took on an even more dangerous and sacrificial dimension. She joined the French Resistance, providing shelter to Jews and others being persecuted by the Nazis. Her courage in the face of such oppression led to her arrest in 1943. She was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp, where, despite the unbearable conditions, she continued to offer love and compassion to her fellow prisoners. There are stories of her sharing the little food she had with others, even as she herself suffered. She died at the camp in the gas chambers on Holy Saturday in 1945, but her legacy of love, courage, and service continues to inspire.

Mother Maria’s life challenges us to rethink what it means to live a faithful, holy life. It is not about removing ourselves from the world’s struggles, but engaging with them fully and with an open heart. Her words, “Give from the heart since each person is the very icon of God in the world,” remind us that holiness is found in the way we treat others, in the way we see the divine in everyone we meet. As Episcopalians, we are called to recognize the presence of Christ in every person, to see the face of God in the stranger and the poor, and to serve with the same radical love that Mother Maria showed throughout her life.

As we reflect on her legacy, let us strive to live lives of bold compassion, recognizing that each person we meet is an icon of God’s love. May we, like Mother Maria, give from the heart, seeing Christ in every encounter and extending the love of God to all.

With Unveiled Faces

Thu, 30 Jan 2025 14:35:12 GMT

With Unveiled Faces: Living with Hope and Integrity in Divided Times

"Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness..."
— 2 Corinthians 3:12 (NRSV)

In times of deep division—when the world feels fractured by political strife, social discord, and uncertainty about the future—what does our faith call us to do? As we reflect on 2 Corinthians 3:12–4:2, Paul offers us a way forward: to live with unveiled faces, in boldness, integrity, and hope.

Paul speaks of the contrast between veiled and unveiled vision—how, through Christ, we are invited to see clearly and live truthfully. This passage reminds us that the gospel is not about hiding behind fear or falsehood but about stepping into the light of God’s transforming love. As Episcopalians, we are called to this same openness, to be people of courage and reconciliation in a world that often rewards division over unity.

Paul tells us that because of the hope we have in Christ, we are called to act boldly. But boldness in Christ is not the same as arrogance or self-righteousness. It is the boldness to love when it is easier to hate, to listen when it is tempting to shut others out, and to speak the truth with grace rather than condemnation. In our divided times, it is easy to retreat into echo chambers, to dismiss those who think differently, or to respond with cynicism rather than hope. Yet Paul calls us to something greater: to stand firm in our faith, not as partisans of any ideology, but as witnesses to God’s reconciling love.

Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:2 are particularly powerful: “We have renounced the shameful things that one hides; we refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God’s word, but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the conscience of everyone in the sight of God.”

In a time when misinformation and fear often shape public discourse, Paul’s call to integrity is more relevant than ever. As followers of Christ, we are called to be truth-bearers—not by twisting words to fit our own narratives, but by speaking honestly and living transparently. This means engaging with humility, acknowledging complexity, and seeking justice without falling into the traps of manipulation or division.

As Episcopalians, we are shaped by a tradition that values the via media—the middle way—holding together differences in a spirit of common prayer and shared faith. This does not mean we avoid hard conversations or settle for shallow unity. Rather, it means we commit to walking together, even when it is difficult, and to seeing Christ in one another, even when we disagree.

Our baptismal covenant calls us to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves, and to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being. These promises shape our response to the divisions in our nation. They remind us that our faith is not about choosing sides in a political battle, but about bearing witness to a kingdom that transcends earthly divisions.

Paul’s imagery of unveiled faces is a powerful one. To live with an unveiled face is to live with authenticity and courage, allowing God’s light to shine through us. It means refusing to be blinded by fear or resentment and instead embracing the transformative work of the Spirit.

As we navigate this challenging time in our nation, may we remember that our boldness comes from hope, not from fear. Our commitment to truth must be unwavering, not for the sake of partisanship, but for the sake of the gospel. And our call to reconciliation is not a passive one, but an active, faithful response to God’s love.

Let us move forward with unveiled faces, reflecting the light of Christ into a world that desperately needs it.

Our Sacred Duty

Wed, 22 Jan 2025 14:12:55 GMT

Our Sacred Duty

On January 21st, at the National Prayer Service at Washington National Cathedral, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde delivered a powerful and challenging sermon, calling for compassion and justice. She directly addressed the pressing needs of our time, urging President Trump to "have mercy" on LGBTQ+ individuals and immigrants—communities that often face fear, marginalization, and discrimination. Bishop Budde reminded us all of our shared humanity and the Gospel’s call to love and serve those on the margins.

In response, President Trump expressed dissatisfaction, describing the service as "boring" and criticizing Bishop Budde for her remarks. On his Truth Social account, he called her tone "nasty" and demanded an apology. Beyond this, some reactions to her sermon included disturbing calls for her to be deported—a statement not only unjust but profoundly antithetical to the values of our faith and what it means to be part of a democratic and compassionate society.

As Christians and members of the Episcopal Church, moments like these remind us of our sacred duty to stand for justice, even when it is difficult or unpopular. Our baptismal covenant calls us to "seek and serve Christ in all persons" and "strive for justice and peace, respecting the dignity of every human being." This commitment compels us to speak out against hatred and exclusion and to be unwavering in our support for those who are marginalized.

Bishop Budde’s words reflect the heart of Christ’s teachings. Jesus consistently stood with the outcast, the overlooked, and the oppressed, calling His followers to do the same. As a Church, we will continue to advocate for the dignity of all people—LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, the poor, and anyone else whose humanity is denied or diminished.

We may not always agree on political solutions, but our faith calls us to engage in civil discourse, marked by humility and love. We are called to listen deeply, to stand firm in our convictions, and to remember that our ultimate allegiance is to Christ’s vision of a world where love, mercy, and justice reign.

At The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, we reaffirm our commitment to these principles. Through our ministries, outreach, and community partnerships, we will continue to stand with and for those who are vulnerable and marginalized. Together, we will magnify the light of Christ, ensuring that all people know they are beloved, seen, and valued.

Let us go forth with courage and compassion, striving always to embody the radical, inclusive love of God.

Called By Name

Tue, 07 Jan 2025 14:22:22 GMT

Called By Name: Reflection on the Baptism of our Lord

Called By Name

The Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord offers us a powerful reminder of who we are and whose we are. In Luke’s Gospel, we witness a moment of divine affirmation as Jesus is baptized in the Jordan River. Heaven opens, the Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice proclaims, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This moment not only marks the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry but also reveals a profound truth about God’s love—a love that calls, claims, and sends us into the world.

Our reading from Isaiah 43:1-7 echoes this same truth:
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”

These words were spoken to the people of Israel in exile, a community longing for hope and restoration. God’s promise to them is both tender and bold: no matter the challenges they face—whether passing through waters or walking through fire—God will be with them.

This assurance is not limited to Israel; it extends to us. In baptism, God calls each of us by name and claims us as beloved. It is a declaration that our worth is not based on our achievements or failures but on God’s unwavering love. Just as Jesus heard the voice from heaven at his baptism, we, too, are invited to hear God’s voice saying, “You are my beloved. I delight in you.”

In the Gospel of Luke, John the Baptist describes the baptism Jesus will bring as one of the Holy Spirit and fire—a baptism that transforms and refines. This is the work of baptism in our lives. It is not just a moment in the past but an ongoing call to live as God’s beloved people, reflecting God’s light and love in the world.

Isaiah’s imagery of passing through waters and fire reminds us that this journey is not always easy. Yet, God’s promise remains: we are never alone. God’s presence accompanies us through every challenge, empowering us to live into our baptismal identity.

As we reflect on the baptism of Jesus, we are invited to consider how we are living out our own baptismal promises. How are we embodying the love and grace we have received? How are we responding to God’s call to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly?

At The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, this might mean continuing to serve our community through outreach programs, advocating for the vulnerable, or simply being a compassionate presence in our daily lives. Wherever we are, God calls us to reflect the love we have received, knowing that we are upheld by the Spirit.

The waters of baptism remind us that we are God’s own—beloved, redeemed, and sent into the world. As we remember Jesus’ baptism this Sunday, let us also renew our commitment to live as God’s beloved people, trusting in God’s promise:
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”

May we go forth with hearts full of gratitude and courage, ready to shine the light of Christ in a world that longs for hope and healing.

The Light That Shines for All

Tue, 31 Dec 2024 13:37:45 GMT

The Light that Shines for All

As the season of Christmas concludes, the Church enters the season of Epiphany, a time that calls us to reflect on the manifestation of Christ to the world. Epiphany, which means "revelation" or "manifestation," centers around the story of the Magi in Matthew 2:1-12 . These wise seekers from the East followed a star, searching for the One who had been born King of the Jews. What they found was not a worldly king in a palace but a child in humble surroundings, embodying God's love and grace for all creation.

The story of the Magi is rich in meaning. These travelers were not Jews, nor were they part of Israel's story. Yet they were drawn to the light of Christ, guided by a star that broke through the darkness of their world. Their journey reminds us that God's love knows no boundaries—cultural, national, or otherwise. The light of Christ is for everyone, calling all people to come and see, to worship, and to leave transformed.

In many ways, the season of Epiphany is an invitation for us to look for God's light in unexpected places. Where do we see Christ at work in our world today? Like the Magi, are we willing to follow where that light leads, even if it takes us into unfamiliar territory?

Epiphany also challenges us to consider how we reflect Christ's light to others. The Magi not only found Christ but returned to their homeland by another road, undoubtedly changed by their encounter. How might our own encounters with Christ inspire us to live differently? Are we willing to be light-bearers in a world that often feels overcome by darkness?

At The Episcopal Church of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, our ministries strive to be a reflection of this light. Whether it’s through food distribution, supporting local shelters, Laundry Love, or our Care Portal Ministry, we seek to embody the inclusive, transformative love of Christ revealed at Epiphany.

As we journey through this season, let us remember that Christ’s light shines not only for us but through us. Just as the star guided the Magi, we are called to guide others toward the love and hope found in Christ. May we, like the Magi, offer our gifts—our time, talents, and treasures—in service to God and one another.

This Epiphany, let us pray for eyes to see the light of Christ, hearts open to receive it, and hands ready to share it with the world. May we boldly proclaim, in word and deed, the Good News that Christ has come for all people.

"Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you." ( Isaiah 60:1 )

Merry Christmas

Mon, 23 Dec 2024 05:00:00 GMT

A Christmas Letter from Father Lee

Dear Beloved,

Merry Christmas!

In this holy season, we gather to celebrate the birth of Christ—the Light of the World who came to us in the humblest of places, cradled in a manger in Bethlehem. His arrival brought hope, peace, and love into a weary and broken world.

But the beauty of Christmas is that the story doesn’t end in Bethlehem. It continues today through you and me. Like Bethlehem, we are called to make space in our hearts and lives for Christ. And like Mary, we are invited to say “yes” to God’s plan, even when we feel uncertain, unprepared, or afraid.

Every time we choose love over hate, kindness over indifference, and generosity over selfishness, Christ is born again in our world. Every act of compassion, every word of encouragement, every moment of forgiveness is a reminder that God’s love is alive and moving through us.

This Christmas, as we celebrate the miracle of Emmanuel—God with us—may we also remember the calling of Christmas: to be Bethlehem, to be Mary’s yes, and to let Christ’s light shine through us into a world that so desperately needs it.

May the joy, peace, and love of Christ fill your heart and home this season and always.

With love and blessings,

Father Lee+

A New Chapter in our Parish Life

Wed, 18 Dec 2024 05:00:00 GMT

A New Chapter: Welcoming the Order of the Daughters of the King

This past Sunday, on Gaudete Sunday—a day of rejoicing in the Advent season—we had the joy of celebrating the institution of our parish’s chapter of the Order of the Daughters of the King (DOK). What a fitting occasion to welcome this new ministry into our church family! As we lit the pink candle of joy, we also celebrated the deep joy and hope that this chapter will bring to our community through prayer, service, and fellowship.

For those unfamiliar, the Order of the Daughters of the King is an international community of women in the Episcopal Church and other Christian denominations. Their motto— “For His Sake…I am but one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. What I can do, I ought to do. What I ought to do, by the grace of God, I will do. Lord, what will You have me do?” —reflects their profound dedication to Christ’s mission in the world.

An active chapter of the DOK brings countless blessings to a parish. Their ministry of prayer strengthens the spiritual foundation of the church. Members commit to a rule of life that includes praying daily for the clergy, the congregation, and the needs of the wider world. Knowing that these faithful women are intentionally holding us all in prayer is a source of immense encouragement.

Beyond prayer, the Daughters engage in acts of service that enrich our community. Whether it’s supporting outreach programs, mentoring others in faith, or offering quiet but steadfast support in times of need, their presence inspires all of us to live more fully into our call as followers of Christ.

The DOK also fosters deep connections within the parish, offering a space for women to grow spiritually, share their faith journeys, and support one another in discipleship. This sense of fellowship builds bridges across generations and deepens the bonds within our church family.

As we celebrate this new chapter, I invite all of us to pray for the Daughters of the King as they embark on this sacred ministry. May their dedication to prayer, service, and evangelism bear fruit in the life of our parish and beyond.

If you feel a tug in your heart to explore joining the DOK, I encourage you to reach out to learn more. Perhaps God is calling you to this beautiful ministry of prayer and service.

Let us give thanks for this new chapter in the life of St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin. May it be a source of blessing for years to come!

The Rose of Advent

Mon, 09 Dec 2024 05:00:00 GMT

The Rose of Advent: A Reflection on Joy

Advent is a season of anticipation and preparation, a time when we ready our hearts and minds for the coming of Christ. In the midst of the deep blue or violet hues that characterize this penitential and reflective season, the rose candle and vestments of the third Sunday of Advent stand out as a striking symbol of joy. Known as Gaudete Sunday —from the Latin word meaning "rejoice"—this day invites us to pause our introspection and celebrate the hope and joy that Christ’s coming brings.

The Symbolism of Rose

The rose candle, the third on the Advent wreath, is often referred to as the "Joy Candle." Its soft, warm hue reminds us that the darkness of the season will soon give way to the radiant light of Christmas. Similarly, rose vestments worn by clergy on this day echo the same theme: a visual sign of the joy and hope that interrupt our waiting.

This joy is not an abstract feeling but a deep, spiritual assurance rooted in God’s promises. Zephaniah 3:14-20, one of the lectionary readings for the third Sunday of Advent, captures this beautifully:

"Sing aloud, O daughter Zion;
shout, O Israel!
Rejoice and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem!" (Zephaniah 3:14, NRSV)

In these verses, the prophet Zephaniah proclaims a vision of restoration and renewal. God promises to gather the outcasts, remove judgments, and rejoice over God’s people with gladness. This joyful vision reminds us that even as we wait for Christ’s coming, we can celebrate God’s enduring love and faithfulness.

Joy Amid Reflection

Advent is not all somber waiting. Gaudete Sunday serves as a reminder that even in the midst of longing and preparation, joy is not only possible but essential. The apostle Paul underscores this in Philippians 4:4-7:

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near."

Paul’s exhortation to rejoice is not a call to ignore the challenges of life but to anchor ourselves in the nearness of God. As we light the rose candle, we declare our trust in the promise that Christ is already at work in the world, bringing healing, peace, and salvation.

Bearing Fruit in Joy

The rose candle and its symbolism of joy also challenge us to act. In Luke 3:7-18, John the Baptist calls his listeners to bear fruits worthy of repentance. This joyful anticipation of Christ’s coming is not passive; it is an invitation to align our lives with God’s will.

We might ask ourselves: How can we embody the joy of this season in our actions? Can we offer a kind word, support a neighbor in need, or extend grace to someone who has wronged us? The joy symbolized by the rose candle compels us to live as bearers of Christ’s light in a world yearning for hope.

As we light the rose candle and see the rose vestments this Gaudete Sunday, let us remember the words of Zephaniah, the exhortation of Paul, and the challenge of John the Baptist. Together, they call us to rejoice, to prepare, and to act. The joy of Advent is not simply a fleeting feeling but a profound truth: Christ is near, and his light transforms our waiting into hope, our preparation into joy, and our faith into action.

May we rejoice with all our hearts, knowing that the Lord is in our midst.

Cultivating the Harvest of Righteousness

Mon, 02 Dec 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Cultivating the Harvest of Righteousness

The Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians is a treasure trove of love and encouragement. In Philippians 1:3-11, Paul’s gratitude for the church in Philippi shines through as he gives thanks for their partnership in the Gospel and prays for their continued growth in love, knowledge, and insight. His words culminate in a beautiful hope—that they will be “filled with the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God” (v. 11, NRSV).

This imagery of a “harvest of righteousness” invites us to reflect on how our faith grows and bears fruit in our lives. It beckons us to consider the soil of our hearts, the seeds we plant, and the conditions we cultivate to yield a harvest that glorifies God.

At the heart of this passage is the recognition that the harvest of righteousness is not something we can produce on our own. Paul emphasizes that it “comes through Jesus Christ.” This reminder points us to the source of all righteousness: God’s grace, made known to us in Christ.

In Scripture, righteousness often refers to being in right relationship—with God, with others, and with the world around us. This kind of life is not achieved through human effort alone but through the transformative power of the Holy Spirit working in and through us. Just as a farmer depends on sunlight, rain, and soil for a fruitful harvest, we depend on the abiding presence of Christ to nurture and sustain us.

Our role, then, is to remain rooted in Christ. Through prayer, worship, and engagement with Scripture, we open ourselves to God’s work in our lives, allowing Christ to shape our hearts and actions in ways that reflect his love and justice.

Paul’s prayer for the Philippians includes a wish that their “love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight” (v. 9). This love is not a vague feeling but an active, growing force that matures as we deepen our relationship with God and others.

Love and knowledge work together to create the conditions for righteousness to flourish. Knowledge helps us discern what is right and good, while love inspires us to act with compassion and humility. Together, they transform our actions and relationships, creating a ripple effect of grace and justice in the world.

We cultivate this love by immersing ourselves in God’s Word, practicing gratitude, and engaging in acts of kindness and service. Each of these practices helps us grow in understanding and embody the self-giving love of Christ.

The purpose of this harvest is not personal acclaim but the glorification of God. Paul prays that the Philippians will bear this fruit “to the glory and praise of God” (v. 11). When we live lives of integrity, humility, and compassion, we point beyond ourselves to the God who empowers us to love and serve.

The fruits of righteousness are not merely internal qualities but tangible expressions of God’s kingdom on earth. Whether through advocating for justice, caring for those in need, or building communities of faith, the harvest of righteousness brings hope and healing to a broken world. It becomes a living testimony to the transformative power of God’s grace.

How Can We Cultivate the Harvest?

As we reflect on this passage, especially during the season of Advent, we are reminded of the importance of preparation. Just as a farmer prepares the fields for planting, we prepare our hearts for Christ’s coming by cultivating love, knowledge, and righteousness.

The harvest of righteousness is not an end in itself but a response to God’s love. It is an invitation to participate in God’s work of renewal and reconciliation, allowing our lives to bear witness to the Gospel.

What are some ways you’ve experienced or witnessed this harvest in your life or community? How might you prepare your heart to grow in love and righteousness in this season? Let us encourage one another as we strive to live lives that glorify God and bear the fruit of Christ’s love.

Thanksgiving And Trust

Mon, 25 Nov 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Thanksgiving and Trust

Jesus said, "I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you-- you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, `What will we eat?' or `What will we drink?' or `What will we wear?' For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well." (NRSV Matthew 6:25-33)

At its heart, Thanksgiving is about trust. It’s a moment to pause, look beyond our worries, and recognize how God has sustained us through seasons of both abundance and challenge.

When Jesus asks us to look at the birds and the lilies, He’s not suggesting a life of passive dependence, but one of active trust. The birds still gather food, and the lilies still grow in the soil. Yet, they do so without anxiety, fully present to their purpose and secure in the provision of their Creator.

How often do we, especially in this fast-paced, often uncertain world, struggle to trust that God sees and knows our needs? Thanksgiving invites us to step back from that anxiety and recall the countless ways God has shown up in our lives—through family, community, and even in unexpected blessings.

Jesus’ call to “seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness” (v. 33) redirects our focus. Thanksgiving isn’t just about gratitude for material things, but also about centering our lives on God’s kingdom—a kingdom defined by love, justice, and grace. When we align ourselves with God’s purposes, we begin to see the deeper blessings in our lives: relationships restored, opportunities to serve, and the joy of sharing what we have with others.

At St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, we are blessed to witness God’s provision through the ministries we share with our community. Whether it’s through supporting families in need, working with other organizations, or simply being present with one another in worship, these are glimpses of God’s kingdom breaking into the here and now.

This Thanksgiving, let’s take Jesus’ words to heart. What would it look like to release some of our worries into God’s hands? Could we trust, even just a little more, in the promise that our heavenly Father knows our needs?

Let’s also ask ourselves how we might embody the generosity of God’s kingdom. Who might need to see God’s provision through us? Perhaps it’s the neighbor who could use an invitation to dinner or the community partner who needs an extra set of hands this season.

As we gather around our tables, may our hearts overflow with gratitude—not just for what we have, but for the God who lovingly provides, and for the call to be participants in sharing that love with the world.

Christ the Alpha and Omega

Tue, 19 Nov 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Christ the Alpha and Omega: Reflections on Revelation 1:4b-8

Revelation is often seen as a mysterious and intimidating book, filled with apocalyptic imagery and cryptic symbols. Yet, its purpose is profoundly pastoral: to provide hope and assurance to believers living in a world where faithfulness can feel like an uphill battle. The passage we focus on today sets the tone by anchoring us in the eternal reign of Christ and reminding us of our place in His kingdom.

John begins by greeting his audience with a blessing rooted in the nature of God as eternal and unchanging. This description—"who is, who was, and who is to come"—reminds us that God’s presence transcends time. It speaks to His faithfulness in the past, His constancy in the present, and His promise to be with us in the future.

For us, as modern Christians, this is a source of great comfort. Especially as many people find themselves in the midst of uncertainty, change, and fear, the unchanging nature of God provides a firm foundation. As members of the Episcopal Church, we encounter this assurance in the Eucharistic Prayer when we proclaim the mystery of faith: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

John’s greeting also emphasizes our identity in Christ: “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father” (Rev. 1:6, NRSV). These words are a powerful reminder that we are not only recipients of God’s love and grace but also active participants in His mission.

The Episcopal Church’s theology of the “priesthood of all believers” echoes this sentiment. Each one of us is called to live as Christ’s representatives in the world, sharing His love, working for justice, and proclaiming the good news. At St. Mary Magdalene & St. Martin, we embody this calling through our community outreach, whether it’s supporting local shelters, aiding families in crisis, or standing alongside marginalized communities.

The passage culminates in the majestic declaration of Jesus as the Alpha and the Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet. This title underscores Christ’s authority over all creation—He is the beginning of everything and the one in whom all things will ultimately be fulfilled.

For us, this means that Christ is not only present in the joyful moments of creation and beginnings but also in the endings and transitions that can feel like loss. The hope of Revelation lies in this truth: the end of our story is not despair or destruction but renewal and reconciliation in Christ.

Revelation 1:4b-8 calls us to lift our eyes to the eternal reign of Christ and to live as faithful witnesses to His kingdom. It challenges us to trust in His sovereignty, to find peace in His unchanging nature, and to embrace our identity as His beloved.

As we reflect on this passage, consider how we might embody the hope and love of Christ in our lives. How can we proclaim His eternal reign, not only with our words but with our actions? How can we bring the light of His kingdom into the corners of the world that need it most?

May we go forth with grace and peace from the One who is and who was and who is to come, bearing witness to the Alpha and Omega, our eternal King.

Embracing the Image of God in All People: Why words matter

Tue, 29 Oct 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Embracing the Image of God in All People: Why Words Matter

In recent days, inflammatory language, in the guise of “jokes” was used to describe Puerto Rico and various groups at a political event. It has sparked conversations about how we honor the dignity of all people. As Episcopalians, our faith calls us to recognize the sacred worth of every individual and to resist language that undermines the divine image in which each person is created. Describing any group of people as "garbage" contradicts not only Christ's teachings but also the Episcopal Church’s commitment to compassion, unity, and love.

Our Baptismal Covenant calls us to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.” This pledge forms the backbone of our faith journey, and it includes standing against language and actions that dehumanize others. Whether in reference to Puerto Rico or any community, derogatory language has no place in the Christian vocabulary. Such words do not reflect the respect and care we are commanded to show each other as God's children.

In the Gospels, Jesus repeatedly emphasizes the importance of loving our neighbor. The parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37) is a powerful example: Christ challenges us to extend compassion beyond our own borders and biases, showing mercy to those who may be different from us. This parable serves as a reminder that our words should reflect kindness and understanding, not contempt. Derogatory language about Puerto Rico, or any other community, places us far from the love and mercy Jesus demonstrated and taught.

In James 3:9-10, we are reminded that, “With the tongue we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God.” The Episcopal Church understands the power of words and their potential to either build up or tear down. Demeaning comments create division and perpetuate harmful stereotypes, while words rooted in respect and compassion help build communities that reflect God’s kingdom on earth.

As Episcopalians, we are called to be courageous disciples who speak up for those who are marginalized and stand against actions or language that devalues others. Insulting an entire community harms the witness of the Church and undermines the Gospel message of love and reconciliation. In honoring the dignity of every human being, we bear witness to the truth that all people, including our Puerto Rican brothers and sisters, are beloved by God.

Let us pray for unity and respect among all people, and remember, prayer denotes action; I encourage everyone to vote.

Almighty God, we thank you for the diversity of the human family and the beauty of each culture and community. Help us to speak with kindness and to resist words that devalue or harm. Grant us the courage to stand against division and to work toward a world that reflects your love and justice. We pray for our Puerto Rican siblings and for all who feel the sting of hateful words, that they may know their worth in your eyes. In Christ’s name, we pray. Amen.

Do we love God for who God is?

Tue, 22 Oct 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Do we love God for who God is?

Reflection The Story of Job (Job 1:1, 2:1-10, 23:1-9, 16-17, 38:1-7, 34-41, 42:1-6, 10-17)

One of the most challenging questions we face in our spiritual lives is this: Do we love God for who God is, or only because of the good things we have? This question cuts to the heart of authentic faith and invites us to reflect on the depth of our relationship with God. Is our love for God dependent on the blessings we receive—health, wealth, security—or is it rooted in something deeper, a genuine devotion that endures even when life is difficult?

The story of Job speaks directly to this struggle. Job was a man of deep faith, described as "blameless and upright," and yet he faced unimaginable loss and suffering. When Satan challenges Job's integrity, the question is raised: Does Job love God only because of the blessings in his life? What would happen if all of those blessings were stripped away? Would Job's faith remain?

As we walk through Job’s story, we’re confronted with this uncomfortable reality. Job’s suffering seems unfair. He’s done everything right, yet his life falls apart. In his pain, Job questions God, but he never turns away. Even when his friends offer shallow explanations for his suffering, Job clings to his relationship with God, struggling to understand but never abandoning his faith. It’s here that we begin to see what loving God for who God is looks like. Job’s love for God isn’t transactional—it’s relational, built on trust even in the midst of confusion and pain.

This theme echoes throughout Scripture. Jesus, too, confronts people with the same challenge. After feeding the 5,000, many followed Him because they were impressed by the miracle. But Jesus cuts to the heart of the matter, telling them they seek Him not because they understand who He is, but because they want more bread. He challenges us to examine our motivations: Do we follow God because of the blessings we hope to receive, or do we follow God because we seek a deeper relationship with the Creator, one that transcends material gain?

It’s easy to love God when life is going well—when we have our health, financial stability, and meaningful relationships. But what happens when those things are taken from us? Do we still love God when we lose our job, when illness strikes, or when a loved one dies? This is where faith is truly tested. It’s in these moments that we discover whether our love for God is based on what God gives us or on who God is.

The Apostle Paul offers a powerful perspective on this. In his letter to the Philippians, Paul speaks of learning to be content in all circumstances—whether in abundance or in need. His strength, he says, comes not from his external circumstances but from his relationship with Christ. This kind of faith moves beyond the ups and downs of life. It’s not anchored in the good things we have, but in the unchanging presence of God.

I think this theme challenges us to consider our own motives. Why do we worship? Why do we pray? Is it because we expect God to bless us in return, or do we love God for God’s own sake? One of the most profound lessons we learn from Scripture is that God desires a relationship with us, one built on trust and love, not simply on what we receive. True love for God is relational, not transactional.

This is not to say that we don’t experience God’s blessings—we do, and they are good gifts. But our faith must go deeper. It must be able to withstand the times when the blessings seem scarce, when life is hard, and when we don’t understand what God is doing. In these moments, we are invited to lean into the mystery of God, to trust in God's wisdom, and to love God for who God is, even when the good things are not there.

Ultimately, loving God for who God is means trusting that God’s presence is enough. It’s about developing a relationship that is not dependent on our circumstances but on the assurance that God is with us through it all. It’s about finding joy not in what we receive but in who God is—Creator, Sustainer, and Redeemer. This kind of love isn’t easy. It requires a shift in how we view our relationship with God. But when we move beyond loving God for the gifts, we discover a faith that is richer, deeper, and more enduring.

So, as we reflect on our own spiritual journeys, let’s ask ourselves: Do we love God for who God is, or only because of the good things we have? It’s a question that can reshape our understanding of faith and deepen our relationship with God. And perhaps, in wrestling with this question, we will find a faith that holds firm, not because of what we have, but because of who God is.

Living a Compassionate, Humble, and Christ-Centered Life

Wed, 16 Oct 2024 05:00:00 GMT

Living a Compassionate, Humble, and Christ-Centered Life

Hebrews 5:1-10

The passage begins by describing the priest as one who can "deal gently with the ignorant and wayward, since he himself is subject to weakness" (Hebrews 5:2). This imagery reminds us that true compassion comes from an understanding of our own flaws. As Christians, we are all part of this priesthood—not just the ordained clergy, but every believer. We are called to represent Christ to the world by offering gentleness and empathy to others, recognizing that everyone, ourselves included, is prone to weakness.

Living a compassionate life requires us to be deeply aware of the struggles others face. It also calls us to extend grace, knowing that we are not perfect either. This attitude can transform how we interact with those around us, allowing us to create spaces of healing, understanding, and love.

Humility is at the heart of this calling. In Hebrews 5:3, the priest offers sacrifices for their sins as well as for the people’s. This reinforces the idea that even those who are faith leaders must acknowledge their imperfections. Humility reminds us that we are all on a journey, dependent on God's grace. It counters the world’s obsession with self-sufficiency and pride by inviting us to see our place in God’s greater plan of salvation.

Christ’s example further deepens this understanding. Hebrews 5:5 points out that Jesus did not glorify Himself by becoming the High Priest. Instead, He took on the role in obedience to God, choosing to serve rather than seeking status or power. His entire life was one of humility and sacrifice—a model for how we should live.

But perhaps the most challenging lesson comes in verse 8, which tells us that although Jesus was God’s Son, He learned obedience through suffering. This teaches us that living a Christ-centered life may lead us through difficult seasons. Obedience to God’s will isn’t always easy; it may come with hardship, loss, or struggle. Yet, just as Christ’s obedience brought salvation to the world, our faithful response to God’s calling allows us to participate in His redemptive work.

For Episcopalians, the concept of the “priesthood of all believers” means that we all share in Christ’s mission. Whether ordained or lay, each of us is called to offer our lives in service to others. This may look different for everyone—some may advocate for social justice, others may care for the poor, or bring healing to the brokenhearted. Every act of kindness, generosity, and compassion is an offering, a reflection of Christ's love at work in the world.

Hebrews 5:1-10 invites us to see ourselves not as isolated individuals but as participants in God’s ongoing mission of love and reconciliation. It reminds us that we are part of something larger, something eternal. By living lives marked by compassion, humility, and obedience, we become vessels of God’s grace and love to the world.

A Living Force

Tue, 08 Oct 2024 05:00:00 GMT

A Living and Active Force

In this week’s passage from Hebrews, we encounter a passage that speaks powerfully about the Word of God and the compassionate nature of Christ as our high priest. This scripture touches on key themes in Anglican theology, particularly the role of scripture, the Incarnation, and the priesthood of all believers.

The passage opens with a striking image: "Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart" (Hebrews 4:12 NRSV).

In the Episcopal Church, we believe that God’s Word is not static. It is living, dynamic, and active, working in and through us. We engage with scripture as a transformative force that challenges, comforts, and reveals the will of God. For all baptized Christians, the Word of God functions not just as a set of instructions but as a means through which the Spirit works in our lives, calling us to transformation.

The piercing nature of the Word—its ability to “judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart”—highlights the role of self-examination in our faith. In the Episcopal tradition, all believers are invited to examine their lives, particularly through the prayers of confession, seeking God’s grace as the Word uncovers the depths of our hearts.

The second part of the passage speaks to Christ’s role as high priest: "Since, then, we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast to our confession" (Hebrews 4:14 NRSV). While Jesus' priesthood is central to our salvation, the Episcopal Church also emphasizes the concept of the priesthood of all believers.

Through baptism, all Christians are called to share in Christ’s ministry of reconciliation. We are not mere observers but active participants in God’s mission. The passage reminds us that Christ, having shared in our humanity, now invites us to continue his work in the world. As part of this shared priesthood, all believers are empowered to bring God’s presence into everyday life—through acts of mercy, justice, and love. The verse "we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses" (Hebrews 4:15 NRSV) assures us that Christ knows our struggles and walks with us. As the baptized, we reflect Christ’s empathy and care for others, embodying this shared priesthood in the ways we support one another and stand with those in need.

The final verse of this passage invites us to "approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need" (Hebrews 4:16 NRSV). For all who are baptized, this invitation to approach God with confidence is a cornerstone of our faith.

Episcopalians affirm that through baptism, we are brought into an intimate relationship with God. We come as beloved children, with full access to the grace and mercy God offers. In our worship, especially in the Eucharist, we see this boldness reflected in the way we come forward to receive the sacraments, trusting in God’s abundant grace for each of us.

This bold approach is not about entitlement but about trust in God’s mercy. As baptized believers, we stand before God, aware of our weaknesses yet confident in Christ’s redeeming love.

Hebrews 4:12-16 invites us to reflect on the shared vocation of all baptized Christians as participants in the priesthood of all believers. It reminds us that the Word of God is alive, constantly working in us and through us, and that we are called to live out our faith with boldness and compassion.

Through the priesthood we share in Christ, we are invited into the deep work of reconciliation, justice, and mercy in the world. This scripture empowers us to approach God confidently, knowing that we are known, loved, and understood by Christ, who sympathizes with our weaknesses and intercedes for us. As we live into this calling, we do so with the assurance that God’s grace is always available to help us in our time of need.