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Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year A (5-3-26)

Sun, 03 May 2026 20:08:40 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Acts 7:55-60 ; 1 Peter 2:2-10 ; John 14:1-14 ; Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

Watch the sermon here

Before us this morning stands the witness of Saint Stephen alongside Jesus’ words in Gospel of John: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” At first glance, those readings seem to pull in vastly different directions. One offers comfort—promise, dwelling, peace. The other confronts us with violence, rejection, and death. But the lectionary holds them together because, in a deeper sense, they interpret one another. Stephen’s martyrdom isn’t just a moment of heroic endurance at the end of his life; it’s the visible shape of a life already formed by Christ. But to see that more clearly, we need a touch more context.

Just before his stoning, Stephen recalls the story of God's saving work from the very beginning - and he is careful to remind the religious leaders that they — not the whole of God's people — were the ones to reject Christ. So, when he stands before his accusers, he doesn’t simply defend himself—he tells the truth about God’s faithfulness and about the long history of people missing what God is doing right in front of them. And when he is dragged out and stoned, his final words echo Jesus himself: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” This isn’t imitation at a distance. It’s participation. Stephen’s life has been so caught up in the life of Christ that, even in his death, the pattern of the cross shows up again.

This is why Stephen's vision during the last moments of his life is so powerful. As the stones are hurled, he looks up and sees “the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” More than just a private moment of comfort, this is a glimpse into something true about Christian promise. The “place” Jesus promises—the house with many dwellings—is not just a far-off, future hope. It’s the life of communion with God that Christ himself embodies, and into which he invites us. And Stephen doesn’t just wait for that dwelling; somehow, he’s already living in it. Even there and then.

Stephen’s witness helps me to hear Jesus’ words more clearly. To prayerfully attempt to not let our hearts be troubled is not a denial of suffering — far from it, actually. Rather it’s a kind of invitation to consider where true, abiding peace comes from. In John’s Gospel, peace isn’t about circumstances going smoothly; it’s about being rooted in the life of God. When Jesus says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” he’s not just stating some religious trade secret —he’s naming himself as a unique place where humanity and God are brought together. So, to trust him is to be drawn into that shared life, and to have our own lives reshaped by his life - way, his death - truth, and his resurrection - life.

With all this in tow, we might say martyrdom isn’t even actually mainly about dying. It’s about witness (it's original meaning, by the way) —about a life so deeply aligned with Christ that it reveals who God is, even under pressure. Stephen’s death is the culmination of that witness, not the whole of it. For most of us, that cumulation won’t take the form of literal martyrdom. And it’s right to give thanks for that. But the deeper pattern still holds. To abide in Christ—to trust him as your way—means slowly being reoriented, so that our instinct to protect ourselves at all costs begins to loosen its grip, and the shape of the cross starts to take root in us.

Theologian Sarah Coakley speaks of vulnerability before God: a kind of disciplined openness where we stop trying to control everything and allow ourselves to be changed by God’s presence. A critical reminder that the Christian life is participation in the life of the Triune God, a life that doesn’t cling to power, but pours itself out in love. So, when Jesus says that those who believe in him will do “greater works,” it’s probably less about dramatic, visible achievements and more about the spread of his life through ordinary people. The “greater works” are the ongoing presence of Christ’s love in the world—lived out in forgiveness, in truth-telling, in acts of mercy and justice. They’re “greater” not because they go beyond Jesus, but because they extend his life across time and place through his people.

And that brings it close to home. The call to witness shows up in the ordinary texture of our lives. It shows up when we’re tempted to protect ourselves through silence, or fear, or indifference—and instead find ourselves pulled, sometimes reluctantly, toward the way of Christ. It might look like telling the truth when it would be easier to go along. It might look like leaving room for reconciliation when shutting down would feel safer. It might look like carrying something difficult or costly without letting it turn us bitter. None of that is dramatic in the way Stephen’s story is dramatic, but it’s all part of the same reality: the dying and rising of Christ taking shape in us.

The point isn’t to romanticize martyrdom or go looking for suffering. The point is to recognize that, in Christ, even suffering can become a place of communion rather than abandonment. “Do not let your hearts be troubled” doesn’t ignore the world’s pain—it promises that the life of God has already entered into pain, and will not let it have the final word. Stephen’s witness invites us to see that the “dwelling place” Christ prepares is not only something waiting for us at the end, but something we begin to inhabit now. To live by faith is to step, however imperfectly, into that communion. And over time, that kind of trust becomes its own form of martyrdom—not usually in one dramatic moment, but in a life gradually given over to the truth that God is most clearly revealed not in control or power, but in crucified and risen love.

Amen.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year A (4-26-26)

Sun, 26 Apr 2026 12:41:12 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings: Acts 2:42-47 ; 1 Peter 2:19-25 ; John 10:1-10 ; Psalm 23

Watch the sermon here

Psalm 23 is one of those scriptural texts that almost everyone knows—a "banger" we would call it in seminary. Inside and outside the church, people are familiar. Many even have it committed to memory as it shows up at funerals, in hospital rooms — in quiet moments when words are hard to find.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want…”

It’s comforting precisely because it's familiar. Maybe even a little too familiar. The kind of passage we can recite about God... without really noticing what God is asking of us. Because if you really boil it down, this isn’t just a psalm about comfort. It’s a psalm about trust. “The Lord is my shepherd.” That’s a relational claim, not a statement of certainty. It doesn’t say, “I understand where my life is going.” It doesn’t say, “I have clarity about every situation.” It says, "I belong to one who leads me."

On Friday I had the privilege of attending a conference in New York where, among many other gripping speakers, I was introduced to Belle Tindall-Riley’s work on unknowing. In it, Belle suggests that much of what we call “knowing” in faith is really about trying to steady ourselves—to reduce uncertainty and to feel in control. Because we want answers, and definitions — something solid we can stand on. And I know that I, for one, had no problem identifying myself in that landscape. But what if faith isn’t about securing ourselves like that? What if it’s about learning how to follow?

Or said another way: do we actually trust God—or do we trust the feeling of being certain and feel the need to give some of the credit to God? Because Psalm 23 doesn’t give us certainty. It gives us movement and movement guided by another. “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he revives my soul.”

Notice what’s happening here: the psalmist isn’t directing any of this. There’s no sense of control. Everything is received.

That’s the posture Belle is getting at with this concept of unknowing . Not willful ignorance or indifferent passivity, but a willingness to let go of control. To admit that we don’t actually have God figured out, and that maybe we don’t need to. Because the truth is, we’d often rather be the shepherd, wouldn’t we? We’d rather manage our lives and anticipate every risk to make sure we stay on the right path.

But the psalm doesn’t leave room for that. “He guides me along right pathways for his Name's sake.”

Even the “right path” isn’t something we alone determine. It’s something we’re led to... but not before the psalm takes the inevitable turn:

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”

Now we’re in a place most of us recognize. Not green pastures, but shadows. Not still waters, but the white waters of uncertainty, grief, and fear. And here’s the striking thing: the psalm doesn’t explain the valley. It doesn’t tell us why it’s happening or how long this trek through it might last. Only that we will not hike it alone.

So what do we do when we don’t understand what God is doing? When the path doesn’t make sense? When the shadows feel a little too real? This is where unknowing stops being an abstract contemplative concept, and begins to show its necessity. Because in that dark valley, certainty isn't just obscured — it's unavailable. Control slips through our fingers and the answers we want simply just aren’t there. So, what is there?

Presence.

“For you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.” Not explanation, but presence. And that can feel like not enough—until you realize it’s actually everything. Unknowing pushes us to see that if we insist on certainty, we may miss that presence altogether. We’ll be so busy trying to figure God out that we won’t notice God is already with us.

So again, the question arises: what if faith's goal isn’t to understand the path, but to trust the one who walks it with you? Because the psalm keeps going: “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me …”

That’s a strange image. Those who trouble me don't disappear. The risk isn’t removed. And yet—there’s provision. And there’s even a kind of abundance. “My cup is running over.” How on earth does this happen?

Well - I don't know. But I do know that it doesn’t come from control. It comes from trust. From letting go of the need to secure everything and instead receiving what’s given—even when the situation hasn’t changed.

That’s the heart of unknowing. Not having everything resolved, but being open enough to recognize grace when it shows up in the middle of unresolved things.

And then the psalm ends: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” This is a statement of confidence—but not the kind we usually reach for. It’s not confidence in a plan we understand or a future we can predict. It’s confidence in a relationship. The shepherd is still the center. Still the one who leads, and who accompanies, and who provides. And maybe that’s the invitation Psalm 23 is quietly making. Not to have more answers or to feel more certain, but to live more deeply into trust.

To loosen our grip on control just enough to be led. And to admit we don’t always know where we’re going—and to believe that we don’t have to. Because we are not alone.

“The Lord is my shepherd.” Not someone we’ve figured out, but someone who is with us. And maybe that’s enough.

Actually—maybe that’s everything.

Amen

Sermon for Easter Sunday, Year A (4-5-26)

Sun, 05 Apr 2026 11:56:19 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Acts 10:34-43; Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24; Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-18

Watch the sermon here

There is a particular kind of darkness that descends, not at midnight, but just before the morning — when the sun is yet to rise, and the world still sleeps. A fog often drifts in this darkness, making it thick with all that we wish to hide from the view of the daylight.

Mary Magdalene knows this darkness. She comes to the tomb while it's still dark, John tells us — and that detail is no accident. Not just the setting of a scene. It's the condition of her heart. She has lost the one who knew her. Not just admired her, not just tolerated her, or even loved her — but the one who really knew her. And now she stands outside an empty tomb, and the emptiness only multiplies the loss. The body is gone. She has been robbed of even the ritual of grief. She cannot anoint the one she loved. So, she can only weep.

The disciples come and go. Peter and John run to the tomb, peer inside, see the folded burial cloths, and leave. Scripture says they didn't yet understand, none of them. But regardless, Mary stays. This is the first thing worth noting: she does not leave. She stays in the place of grief, even when it makes no sense, even when there is nothing left to see. Because grief, for all its fogginess, is the by-product of great love. And great love doesn't simply dissolve into the fog of loss.

Mary then notices something - or rather someone - in the tomb. Whether she realizes she is speaking to angels, the text does not say. But regardless, they ask the important question:

"Woman, why are you weeping?"

One of the interesting things about grief is its ability to layer itself — to be multifaceted. When we grieve we often lament the loss of something or someone, but we also tend to struggle to recognize our own self, our own life in the wake of such a loss. Or said another way: grief has a way of letting us forget who we are — or minimally, it can fog over a fuller vision of who we are called to be. The best way out of this fog, is to be honest about where exactly our grief is going. What it's touching. And what it's bringing to the surface. So, the angelic question stands as the right question: Woman, why are you weeping?

In the midst of all this Mary scarcely notices a man standing there. She assumes he's the gardener. Not because she is foolish or faithless, but because grief does this to us. It fogs the lens. It makes the familiar strange. It stands the living right in front of us, and still we do not recognize them. And again the question comes, but this time with one more: "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?"

And then he says one word. One syllable, in her own language, and seemingly someway in the voice she knew:

"Mary."

And everything changes.

Not because the world changed. The tomb is still empty, after all. The soldiers are still at their posts. The religious authorities are still in power. The disciples are still in hiding. Nothing in the visible world has shifted. But, she's heard her name from the mouth of the one who knows her — and suddenly... she can see. This is the heart of resurrection, I think. Not a vague theological picture of life after death —at least not entirely. But rather, resurrection is being known and called back into the light by the one who loves you — who really knows you.

We've all had seasons of standing outside empty tombs. Perhaps you are standing outside one now. The marriage that ended, the diagnosis that came back wrong, the career that collapsed, the child who drifted away, the faith that went quiet. The loved one who died. These are all forms of the same grief: the loss of something that held your life together. And like Mary, we sometimes cannot see clearly through the fog of it. We mistake the redeemer of our lives for the gardener. We look right at hope, and see nothing.

But consider how God has spoken your name in the midst of that fog.

It might have come through another person — someone who showed up at exactly the right time, and said something so particular to you that you knew, somehow, that it wasn't a coincidence. A stranger in a hospital waiting room. A letter that arrived too late and somehow arrived just in time.

It might have come in a moment of unexpected beauty — the kind that breaks through when you are least ready for it. A piece of music that perfectly captured the grief in you, and named it. A sunset that seemed, absurdly, personally addressed to you. The laughter of your child in the next room, sudden and unbidden, reminding you that joy still lives in the house.

It might have come in Scripture itself — not as a general word to humanity but as a sentence that seemed to find you on the page, in the particular season you were in, in the particular sorrow you carried. "I have called you by name and you are mine," Isaiah reminds us.

It might have come in the bread and the cup, when nothing felt real and the liturgy felt hollow, and then — just for a moment — the veil thinned and you felt, rather than merely believed, that you were not alone.

These are the moments when Christ speaks our name into the fog. They don't fix everything. Mary still has to tell the disciples what she has seen. The world still has to reckon with what happened. She is given a mission, not a vacation. But she can see now. She can move now. She has heard her name from the one who has undergone death itself to find her. And to remind her of who she is — and of whose she is.

Jesus knew Mary's name. And He knows yours.

Make no mistake, friends. Christ is alive. And he is alive for you. For your healing. For your loving. For your salvation. And to offer to you, continually, the invitation to new life. Where death — and grief — never last forever. This is the ultimate gift given at the ultimate price — the price of God's own life. Poured out for you and for all.

Happy Easter, you beloved children of God. He is Risen. And he is calling your name.

Amen.

Sermon for Good Friday, Year A (4-3-26)

Fri, 03 Apr 2026 11:50:22 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Isaiah 52:13-53:12 ; Hebrews 10:16-25 ; John 18:1-19:42 ; Psalm 22

There is a way of telling the story of the cross that makes it sound like a transaction—something tidy, and even something measurable. A debt is owed, a price must be paid, a balance must be settled, and Jesus becomes the one who steps in to pay what we could not. It's a way of thinking that feels familiar, because it mirrors the systems we live in: systems of economics, law, and trade - among others.

But when we listen more carefully to the witness of Scripture—when we linger with Isaiah’s suffering servant, and attend to the testimony of Hebrews — we are drawn into something far deeper and far more mysterious.

17th-century English Poet Richard Crashaw illuminates this mystery beautifully:

Lo, the full, final sacrifice

On which all figures fix’d their eyes,

The ransom’d Isaac, and his ram;

The Manna, and the Paschal lamb.

Jesu Master, just and true!

Our Food, and faithful Shepherd too!

Live ever Bread of loves, and be

My life, my soul, my surer self to me.

Help Lord, my Faith, my Hope increase;

And fill my portion in thy peace.

Give love for life; nor let my days

Grow, but in new powers to thy name and praise.

O soft self-wounding Pelican!

Whose breast weeps Balm for wounded man.

All this way bend thy benign flood

To a bleeding Heart that gasps for blood.

That blood, whose least drops sovereign be

To wash my worlds of sins from me.

Some of you will be familiar with the image of the self-wounding pelican — that in times of famine the seabird will prick its own breast, allowing its chicks to survive off of its own life-blood when no other option for life presents itself. And it's easy to understand why that image has had so much staying power over the centuries. Because we encounter there, as on the cross, is not a transaction, but a self-offering. Not Jesus paying something to God, but God, in Christ, giving God’s own self.

Isaiah’s vision is not concerned with settling accounts. Instead, it presents us with a figure who enters fully into the depths of human suffering: “despised and rejected,” “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” one who “has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases.” This language isn't distant or abstract. It's intimate, almost unbearable in its closeness. The servant doesn't stand apart from human pain — analyzing it or resolving it from a safe distance. He carries it. He absorbs it. He allows it to mark him.

And this is where so many of our familiar explanations fall short —because they try, in one way or another, to shield God from the cost. They imagine a God who requires sacrifice but does not become it, who demands suffering but does not endure it, who remains untouched while another pays the price. But that is not the God Isaiah reveals, and it is not the God we meet in Jesus.

The letter to the Hebrews presses this point even further. We're told that we don't have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, but one who has been tested in every way as we are. More than that, we're given this striking image of Christ offering “prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears.”

This isn't the language of transaction; it's the language of participation. It's the language of a God who does not remain distant from human suffering, but enters into it fully, and vulnerably, and without reserve.

When we begin to see this, the meaning of the cross shifts. It's no longer a kind of divine requirement imposed on Jesus from the outside — as though God needed to be persuaded or satisfied. Instead, it becomes the fullest expression of God’s own life—a life that is, at its very core, self-giving love. Of God’s desire to be with us, even at the cost of entering into our violence, our rejection, and even our death.

This is what Crashaw names so beautifully: “the full and final sacrifice.” Not one sacrifice among many, not one payment in a long chain of debts, but the complete self-offering of God.

In the cross, we see not simply what God does, but who God is. God is not a creditor waiting to be satisfied; God is love that pours itself out. God is mercy that does not turn away when it is rejected. God is a life so abundant that it would rather enter into death than abandon creation to it.

And if this is true, then salvation is not something external to us, as though it were a deal struck somewhere beyond our reach. Salvation is something we are invited to enter into. Hebrews tells us to approach the throne of grace with boldness, to receive mercy and find grace in time of need. That boldness doesn't come from confidence in ourselves, as though we had somehow met the necessary conditions. It comes from trusting that God has already given everything — that there is nothing left to withhold.

Yet this is precisely where the cross challenges us most deeply, because we are so accustomed to living by systems of exchange. We measure worth, we calculate value, we assume that love must be earned and that grace must somehow be balanced. Even in our understanding of God, we're tempted live as though divine love operates within the same limits.

But the cross breaks open those assumptions. It reveals a God who doesn't wait for worthiness, who doesn't hold back until the accounts are settled, who doesn't love us in proportion to what we can offer in return. Instead, it shows us a God who, in Christ, gives God’s very self into the hands of a broken world and refuses to take that gift back —even when it is met with rejection and violence.

This should stand as both our comfort and our calling. It's our comfort because it means there is nothing we can do to place ourselves beyond the reach of God’s love. There is no failure, no weakness, no sin that God has not already entered into and carried. But it is also our calling, because to follow Christ is to be drawn into that same pattern of life. We are invited to become people who no longer live by transaction, but by gift; people who do not measure others’ worth, but extend mercy; a people who, however imperfectly, learn to give themselves away in love.

Not because suffering is good, but because love — in a world like this — will always be costly.

And yet, this is the mystery at the heart of our faith: that the God who gives God’s self on the cross is the same God who raises the dead. What looks like loss is, in truth, the fullest revelation of divine life. “Lo, the full and final sacrifice”—not a payment made to satisfy God, but God, in Christ, holding nothing back, so that nothing—not even death itself—could ever separate us from the love that is, and always has been, the very heart of God.

Amen.

Sermon for Palm Sunday, Year A (3-29-26)

Sun, 29 Mar 2026 21:41:04 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Readings : Matthew 21:1-11 ; Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29 ; Philippians 2:5-11 ; Matthew 27:11-54

Watch the sermon here

In times of unrest and insecurity we often hear - and might sometimes ourselves feel - that if we just had more control - more power - in the right hands, then everything would work itself out. But that idea - for all its appeal - rests on something far shakier than we’d often like to admit:

Power is a fickle thing.

Because much of what we call power… isn’t real. Not in any lasting sense. It’s constructed and maintained and agreed upon. And because of these qualities, it can just as quickly unravel.

Matthew’s gospel really rubs our face in this truth today in the telling of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Because make no mistake, this is not just a quaint religious moment. It is a public, embodied, political statement. Loaded with expectation, and tension, and meaning. A moment where competing visions of power collide right in the middle of a palm- covered street.

The crowds gather. Cloaks on the ground. Branches in the air. “Hosanna!” they cry—Save us! Save us! And what they're reaching for - what they are hoping for - is power. Real power. The kind they’ve seen before. The kind Rome wields so effectively. The kind that dominates and enforces - all for the promise of "security." But what they’re grasping for is not what Jesus has on offer.

Because the power they imagine—the power of control, of dominance, of finally being on top—is always more fragile than it appears. It depends on public perception and collective momentum. On people continuing to believe that it holds fast. But when that belief cracks...

We're watching that play out in real time in our own political life. The current presidential administration has, at various moments, appeared to command almost total influence—shaping narratives, consolidating loyalty, projecting strength. And yet, that sense of dominance is constantly shifting. Legal pressures, electoral outcomes, fractures within alliances—these all reveal something important.

That what looks immovable often isn’t.

And if we’re honest, it’s not just about one person, or one party, or one moment. It’s about us. It's about the human tendency to chase after forms of power that feel solid, but that are ultimately sustained by something as thin as collective agreement. We want something to hold onto. Something that reassures us that things are under control. But, Palm Sunday interrupts that illusion.

Jesus doesn't arrive the way power is supposed to arrive. No war horse. No spectacle of force. Just a donkey. A slow, almost absurd foil to everything we’ve been taught to recognize as strength. And make no mistake - it’s not subtle. This is deliberate.

Jesus in this act exposes the lie - not just out there in Rome - but in here, in us. The lie that power is found in control. That salvation comes through dominance. That if we can just get the right person in charge, everything will finally be made right. And as I said, oh, about this time last year, it’s a very convenient idea. But it’s also patently untrue.

Because the same crowd that cries “Hosanna” will, in a matter of days, turn. Or will at least disappear. or fall in line with another story. Another version of power. Another illusion. And that should unsettle us. Because it reveals how easily we attach our hope to things that cannot bear its weight.

Now, to be clear: this does not mean that politics doesn’t matter. Quite the opposite. If politics is how we order our life together, then of course the Gospel should shape our politics just as it should shape every other aspect of our lives. God is not blind to the systems we build or the decisions we make (or don't make) just because they aren't "in church".

There is no such thing as a non-political Christianity.

But—and this is critical—Jesus does not come to baptize our illusions about power. He comes to dismantle them. To show us that what we often call power is, at best, temporary—and at worst, a distraction from the deeper reality of what God is doing in the world. Because real power - the kind that doesn't collapse when challenged - also doesn't necessarily need crowds to sustain it. It doesn't rise and fall with approval ratings or election cycles. And it does not depend on fear or force.

Real power, it turns out, looks like Jesus moving steadily ...toward the cross.

And that is where this road leads. The same road lined with branches and cloaks. The same voices crying out for salvation. The same expectations hanging in the air. All of it will give way—not to an enthronement, but to a crucifixion. Which, is either the ultimate failure of power, or the revelation that everything we thought power was… was never real to begin with.

So, as we wave our palms, and as we join the crowd in crying “Hosanna,” the question isn’t just whether we believe Jesus can save. It’s whether we're ready to let go of the illusion of how we think that salvation is supposed to look. Because God is not interested in propping up our fragile versions of power. God is doing something far more disruptive than that.

And that is very Good News.

Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, Year A (3-22-26)

Sun, 22 Mar 2026 21:17:15 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14 ; Romans 8:6-11 ; John 11:1-45 ; Psalm 130

Watch the sermon here

The valley is full of bones. Not a peaceful cemetery with carefully tended graves in neat rows. Rather, this valley chalked full of old, tired, dry, cracked, lifeless bones. When the prophet Ezekiel is led to this desolate place, God asks a question that is so honest it almost sounds cruel:
Can these bones live? ( And kind of like getting asked a question in class you're not prepared to answer Ezekiel uses the oldest trick in the book. "Oh God, you know...") It's a desolate and distant image, this valley of dry bones. But somehow, we know this place. Some of us have been here before.

Then we move to John's Gospel, where death is not distant and abstract, but personal. Lazarus - a friend of Jesus - has died, and his sisters Mary and Martha are grieving. “Lord, if you had been here…” Martha says. Jesus was too late. Death could not be stopped. Lord, if you had been here... It's the kind of question many of us have whispered in one form or another. "God, where were you?" "Jesus, what's taking so long?" And the non-answer we often get is similar to the one Martha receives.

Both of stories remind us of something central to the faith that we profess: that there is no resurrection without death.

I once walked alongside someone in a congregation who was struggling with addiction. For years, it had quietly taken root—first as a way to cope, and eventually as something that began to unravel the very fabric of their life. Thread by thread, each one a relationship, a job, a dream. Until there was little left but dependency and so much shame. I remember them saying to me, “I don’t think there’s anything left of me that isn’t broken.” In some way it felt like standing in Ezekiel's valley—dry, and scattered, and beyond repair.

There was no single moment where everything changed. Instead, it began with something small and fragile: a willingness to be honest. To say out loud the pain that had been hidden. And to admit that they needed help to see a way toward new life. And even that didn’t fix everything.

There were relapses and missed meetings. There were days of progress followed by days that felt like collapse. There were moments of hope, and then long stretches where it seemed like nothing was changing at all. If you looked at it from the outside, you might have said, “This isn’t resurrection. This is just ...struggle.”

But if you looked closer, something was happening. It was like bones beginning to clank together—just slightly. Sinews creeping back to the bones they once clung to. And over time—slowly and unevenly—something like life began to emerge. Not perfection. And definitely not perfect freedom from addiction. But life.

Longer stretches of sobriety and more frequent moments of clarity and fresh perspective. There were opportunities to slowly rebuild trust with those who had been hurt. And most importantly - there was a shift in how they saw themselves. Less defined by failure, and more open to the possibility that they were still someone God was not yet finished with.

But it was messy .

There were still days when the old patterns hit hard. There were still consequences that didn’t just disappear. There was - to borrow Martha’s words at the tomb - a stench. Because resurrection requires us to face what we would rather keep sealed away. Because resurrection... is a messy business.

In Ezekiel, the bones don’t instantly become a living army. They rattle. They come together. Flesh forms. And still—they are not alive until the breath of God enters them. In Bethany, Lazarus walks out of the tomb—but still bound in grave clothes. Alive, yes. But not yet free. And Jesus turns to the community and says, “Unbind him.” That’s the part we often miss - the full scope of what resurrection entails.

As theologian Rowan Williams reflects, resurrection is not the erasure of what has happened, but the transformation of it—the bringing of life through death rather than around it. God does not bypass the grave; God works within it, redeeming even what seems beyond hope. [1]

Resurrection, then, is not just something God does to us. It is something God draws us into. We are called to participate—to roll away stones, to speak hope into dead places, to help unbind one another.

That person I mentioned earlier didn’t find life again because everything suddenly became easy. They found it because, somehow, in the middle of the mess, God’s Spirit was at work—and they kept showing up to it. And because there were people around them willing to walk with them, to sit in the discomfort, to hold them accountable, and to remind them who they were when they couldn’t remember themselves. That is what resurrection often looks like. Not clean. Not quick. Not easy. But real. And maybe that’s where this meets us today.

Maybe you’re carrying something that feels like a bag of dry bones—something long dead and beyond hope. Maybe you’re standing outside a tomb, grieving what feels irreversible. Or maybe you’re like Lazarus—alive, but still wrapped in something that binds you.

Hear this: God is not waiting for things to become neat before bringing your spirit back to life. God is not afraid of the mess. God steps into it—into the struggle, the relapse, the shame, the slow rebuilding—and God begins the holy work of resurrection. So, if all you can do right now is show up and give yourself over to that work, that is enough. Because the God who asks, “Can these bones live?” is also the God who breathes life into them. The God who calls Lazarus from the tomb is also the God who surrounds him with a community to help set him free.

The same is true for us. Resurrection is happening—even now - in ways that are incomplete, and uncomfortable, and so very messy. But also—in ways that are full of life-giving grace. And that is the very best news.

Amen

[1] Resurrection: Interpreting the Easter Gospel (1982)

Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, Year A (3-8-26)

Sun, 15 Mar 2026 01:11:10 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Exodus 17:1-7 ; Romans 5:1-11 ; John 4:5-42 ; Psalm 95

Watch the sermon here

This week the world has been watching another spiral of violence continue to unfold in the Middle East. Airstrikes by Israel, coordinated with the United States seemingly at the current President's behest, have hit targets across Iran, while Iranian missiles and drones have struck back across the region. The conflict has already killed more than thirteen hundred people and threatens to expand even further.

And as always happens in moments like this, the language of division becomes louder. Nations talk about enemies. Leaders talk about domination and surrender. Communities are told who they are supposed to hate. But beneath the rhetoric are ordinary people—families in Tehran, Jerusalem, and across the region—who will bear the real cost of those divisions.

Moments like this remind us how easily the world organizes itself around hostility: us and them, friend and enemy, neighbor and threat. And that's why today’s Gospel feels so strikingly relevant.

John tells us that Jesus is traveling through Samaria when he stops at a well outside the town of Sychar. It’s noon—the heat of the day—and a Samaritan woman comes to draw water.

Immediately, we're meant to notice the social barriers propping up this scene.

First, there's the ethnic and religious barrier between Jews and Samaritans. The hostility between these two groups ran deep—centuries deep. Jews saw Samaritans as religious traitors who had corrupted the faith. Samaritans saw Jews as arrogant and exclusionary. And the two groups avoided one another whenever possible.

Second, there's the barrier of gender. In that culture, it was very unlikely that a Jewish rabbi would publicly initiate a conversation with a woman, especially a woman he did not know.

Third, there's the barrier of social reputation. We soon learn that this woman’s life story is a bit... complex. She's had five husbands, and the man she lives with now is not her husband. Many scholars believe this is why she comes to the well at noon—avoiding the other women who would have gathered earlier in the cooler morning hours. And also hopefully avoiding the judgement as well.

So here we have three dividing lines: ethnic hostility, gender norms, and moral stigma. And Jesus crosses every single one of them.

He begins with a simple request: “Give me a drink.” It may seem like a small moment, but it is revolutionary. By asking for water, Jesus acknowledges this woman's dignity. He places himself in a position of need before someone society has labeled as less than. And the woman is stunned. “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” In other words: You’re not supposed to talk to me. But Jesus is not interested in maintaining those boundaries. Instead, he begins speaking about something deeper—“living water,” the kind of water that quenches a deeper thirst.

At first she misunderstands him, thinking he is talking about actual water. But Jesus is speaking about something else. Something beyond. The very life of God flowing into the human soul. Then the conversation becomes personal. Jesus reveals that he knows her story—her broken relationships, her complicated life. But notice what he does not do. He does not condemn her. He does not shame her. He simply tells the truth and calls her into new life.

Grace meets her exactly where she is. And something begins to change.

The woman who arrived at the well carrying shame suddenly becomes the first evangelist in the Gospel of John. She runs back to the town and tells everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?”

“Come and see.”

Those three words ignite something in the town. Because of her testimony, many Samaritans come to meet Jesus themselves. The woman who once avoided the community becomes the very bridge between her neighbors and Christ. And that is often how the kingdom of God works. The people society overlooks are the very people God chooses to carry the good news.

The disciples return and are shocked to see Jesus speaking with this woman. They cannot imagine why he would be having this conversation. And with a Samaritan, no less! Yet while they are still confused, she is already proclaiming the Messiah. The outsider becomes the witness. And the living water begins to flow far beyond the well.

The boundaries Jesus crossed that day are not ancient history. They are still very much alive in our world. Political leaders still divide people into camps of loyalty and hostility. Nations still organize themselves around fear of the other. But the Gospel refuses to accept those divisions as final.

Jesus shows us another way: the way of meeting people at the well. The way of conversation instead of suspicion. The way of grace instead of judgment. Because sometimes the people we have been taught to fear are the very people through whom God chooses to work. And sometimes the most faithful thing a Christian can do in a divided world is refuse to let hatred have the final word.

Actually, I think the most faithful thing a follower of Christ can do in a time like this, is first to remember that we are called to seek and serve that same Christ in all people. Maybe especially our enemies. And I don't know about you, but I will definitely be needing God's help to do that.

So, instead of taking our cue from the powers and principalities of this world, we take a breath and walk to the well. We speak. We listen. And we discover that the living water of God flows across every line the world tries to draw.

Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, Year A (3-1-26)

Sun, 01 Mar 2026 18:58:10 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Readings : Genesis 12:1-4a ; Romans 4:1-5, 13-17 ; John 3:1-17 ; Psalm 121

Watch the sermon here

Several weeks ago, I was running around here like a bat out of you-know-where, trying to do this and that. And often when I give into the temptation to think to myself "I think I'm going to have a good administrative day, very productive , very orderly, " it's about then that the Holy Spirit just drops someone or something into my day. I'm pretty sure as a reminder of who is really in charge here.

So, naturally within five minutes of a tradesman walking into our office to collect a check for his services, the two of us were sitting in that pew together. And he was telling me a heartbreaking account of his life; of the current tremendous struggles he and his loved ones faced, and of the seeming endlessness to the suffering that lapped up around his life.

It was only after the tears seem to run out, and after there was an admission of guilt around "not being in church," and not always doing the right thing - it was only then that he looked up at that cross with a twinkle of something in his eye that looked a lot like faith.

"Do you believe there can be a future that's not the same as today?" I asked him.

"I do," he said. And I couldn't help but notice he seemed to walk out of here a little taller than he came in.

If we are told one thing today, it is this: God makes a way for the faithful. Not the impressive. Not the morally polished. Not the spiritually accomplished. The faithful.

This is good news because it means Abram’s story is our story. It means Nicodemus’ confusion is our confusion. It means we come to God most faithfully not with an impressive moral or spiritual résumé, but with an empty agenda. And with empty hands. Outstretch, surrendered, and ready to receive God's promise of our renewal.

And then comes that line so familiar: “For God so loved the world…” Not God so loved the worthy. Not God so loved the strongest nation that "got it right" and then bent all the others to its way. Not God so loved the religious elite. Not God so loved those who believed every word. Not God so loved those who were always on the right side of history. Not even God so loved only those who call themselves Christian.

God so loved the world. The broken, rebellious, fractured, and wounded world.

What is truly mind-blowing to me is that God's love of that same world has always preceded its transformation. Think about it: before Abram even obeyed he was promised a new future. Before Nicodemus understood grace Jesus promised it to him. Even before we are born from above we are seen and cherished by a creating and life-giving God.

I can't help but think of our dearly departed Betty Bogutt when we speak of those who have been born from above. Someone totally gripped by the Gospel. Who gets a glimpse behind the veil at the freedom and peace that comes from complete reliance on God and trust in God's faithfulness. She carried a an almost childlike sense of wonder and awe at the simple beauty of life. She saw the hand of God in the most mundane and often even in the most troubling of times. Her faith was an example to me, and she would have been the first to tell you that her renewal - this rebirth - came late in her life. And that it changed how she saw everything. Her rebirth was exactly why when I said goodbye I also had to tell her how proud of her I was. And of that fierce, unshakable faith. Until the very end.

This new birth—this being born “from above” or “of the Spirit”—is not simply self-improvement. It is truly a re-creation. Just like when in Genesis the Spirit hovered over the waters, so now the Spirit hovers over our chaos and speaks new life. This is the heart of the Gospel. This is the Good News. It is never too late.

Jesus does not offer Nicodemus a five-step plan. He offers him a cross. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up.” Because true salvation does not come by climbing upward to God but by looking in faith at the One who is lifted up for us.

Here is the heart of it: righteousness is not achieved; it is received. New birth is not engineered; it is given. The promise does not rest on our performance, but on God’s faithfulness.

Now, this does not, of course, make obedience to God irrelevant. Abraham’s life changed. Nicodemus, later in John’s Gospel, steps into the light, defending Jesus and helping to bury him. Once we truly accept grace, it does not leave us unchanged. But transformation is the fruit, not the foundation. The only thing we're on the hook for in this whole project, is to say yes.

So if today you feel like Nicodemus—confused, cautious, unsure—you are not far from the kingdom. Or if you feel like Abram—staring at promises that seem impossible—you are exactly the kind of person God delights to call righteous. Come with your achievements, sure. And definitely approach the throne of grace boldly with your failures. But more than anything, come with trust. With faith.

For the God who called a childless old man “father of many nations” and who loved the world enough to give an only Son is the same God who - by water and Spirit - brings life out of barrenness, and light out of darkness.

And all out of faithfulness to you.

Amen.

Sermon for the Sixth Sunday After the Epiphany, Year A (2-15-26)

Sun, 15 Feb 2026 02:53:05 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Exodus 24:12-18 ; 2 Peter 1:16-21 ; Matthew 17:1-9 ; Psalm 2

Watch the sermon here

There are moments in life when everything feels heavy — when the path ahead looks uncertain, when grief sits close to the surface, when suffering feels less like an idea and more like something we carry around on our backs and in our very bodies.

And it's into a world like that, that the story of the Transfiguration speaks.

Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain. And suddenly, before their eyes, he is changed. His face shines. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear. A cloud surrounds them, and a voice declares: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him.” It's a moment of sheer and radiant glory. But if we stop there, we misunderstand it. And that's because this moment happens immediately after Jesus tells the disciples that he is going to suffer — that he will be rejected, killed, and raised.

So, this Transfiguration is not an avoidance of suffering. It is a revelation of what God is doing within it. It shows us that suffering is not the end of the story — and sometimes, suffering is not even separate from glory.

Mountains in scripture are places where heaven and earth meet. In Exodus, Moses climbs Mount Sinai. The cloud of God’s presence covers the mountain. Fire and mystery surround him. It is holy, overwhelming, and beautiful. But Moses doesn’t climb the mountain to escape reality. He carries the burden of a struggling people with him — a people afraid, impatient, and uncertain. Likewise, Jesus doesn’t bring the disciples to the mountain to avoid the world. When they come down, they will walk directly toward Jerusalem, toward suffering humanity, toward the cross.

This matters because so often we imagine spiritual life as an escape from hardship — as if faith should lift us above grief, or protect us from struggle. But the gospel tells a different story. God does not remove us from suffering. God meets us within it — and slowly, mysteriously, transfigures it.

Transfiguration does not mean suffering suddenly becomes pleasant or easy. Afterall, Jesus will not avoid the cross. And The disciples will still experience fear, confusion, and loss. But with God's help something changes in how suffering is held - what comes of it. And what becomes of us.

Think about someone who has walked through deep loss — the death of a loved one, the end of a marriage, the collapse of a dream — and slowly discovers a new compassion for others. They begin to notice people they once overlooked. They listen more deeply. Their suffering has not disappeared, but it has been transformed into something that carries light.

Or consider a community facing injustice or hardship together — neighbors supporting one another through economic strain, illness, or uncertainty. The suffering itself is real. But so is the solidarity that grows within it. This is transfigured suffering. Not erased suffering. Not denied suffering. But suffering that becomes a place where grace breaks through.

“Lord, it is good for us to be here. Let us make dwellings.” Peter’s reaction here is deeply human. He wants to stay on the mountain. And we, too, understand that impulse. We, too, want to stay in moments when faith feels clear, when hope feels strong, when God feels close.

But Jesus leads them back down that mountain. Because the purpose of encountering God is not to avoid life — it is to return to life, but return to it transformed. We don’t stay on the mountain. We carry the light into the deepest, darkest valley.

One of the most tender moments in this story is easy to overlook. When the disciples fall to the ground in fear - overwhelmed by more than they can possibly make sense of - Jesus touches them and says, “Get up, and do not be afraid.” Before explanation, there is Christ's touch. Before answers, there is Christ's presence. Both of which are deeply revealing of God’s heart.

When we suffer, we often want explanations. Why is this happening? What does it mean? Where is God? We want an answer. And sometimes the answer comes not as an explanation but as presence — in a friend who sits quietly with us, in a prayer that holds us when words fail, in a small unexpected moment of peace that arrives without warning.

The touch of Christ says: you are not alone here. And the voice from the cloud gives one simple command: “Listen to him.” Listen to the one who walks toward suffering instead of away from it. Listen to the one who refuses to abandon the wounded. Listen to the one who shows us that glory is not domination or success, but self-giving love. Because when we listen to Jesus, we begin to see differently. We begin to recognize that even in the hardest moments, God is not absent. In fact, eventually we see that sometimes the light of God is most visible not in triumph, but in endurance. Not in power, but in mercy. Not in escaping pain, but in loving through it.

But the disciples cannot remain on the mountain. The vision fades and the dazzling light disappears. But something has changed. They have seen who Jesus truly is - what he has truly come to do — and that memory will sustain them when everything becomes dark.

Perhaps that is what faith often looks like for us. Not constant brightness, but the quiet remembering of light. The memory of a moment when grace felt real. The trust that even now — even here — God is at work transforming what feels broken into something radiant.

God's promise of Transfiguration is not that we will avoid suffering. It's that suffering will not have the final word. Because the light that shone from Christ on the mountain is the same light that walks with us into every valley — and slowly, patiently, lovingly, transfigures us.

Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany, Year A (2-8-26)

Sun, 08 Feb 2026 19:07:53 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Isaiah 58:1-12 ; 1 Corinthians 2:1-12 ; Matthew 5:13-20 ; Psalm 112:1-9

“Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet!”

There are moments when God does not whisper, but commands through prophetic voice— to speak clearly, boldly, without apology — because something has gone terribly wrong in the spiritual life of God's people. The people in Isaiah’s time believed they were faithful. They fasted. They prayed. They gathered for worship. And they assumed that these religious activities guaranteed God’s approval.

And yet God says: your worship has become a lie. You seek me daily — but ignore justice. You bow your heads — but exploit the vulnerable. You practice your religion — but you resist transformation. Isaiah here exposes a terrifying truth: that religious activity can become both a mask that hides spiritual corruption, and also a high-minded excuse to avoid loving action. And that is why this text speaks with such urgency into our present moment — especially as we confront the growing influence of Christian nationalism and the temptation to call for peace before we see evidence of God's justice.

Christian nationalism is not merely an unholy marriage of Christ and patriotism. It's a theological distortion. It's what happens when faith becomes entangled with empire — when the church begins to believe that the success or preservation of a nation is synonymous with the work of God.

And this isn't new. The church has faced this temptation before. Augustine of Hippo, writing after the fall of Rome, warned Christians not to confuse the City of God with the city of man. Nations rise and fall. Empires claim divine favor. But the kingdom of God cannot be reduced to any political order. Whenever Christians forget that distinction, our faith becomes idolatry.

Idolatry is giving ultimate loyalty to something that is not God. When flags function like sacred objects… When political and religious leaders are treated as anointed saviors beyond reproach…When we retreat into a belief that God can and will only act through our imperfect, human work...When defending our national or political identity becomes more urgent than loving our neighbor - even our neighbor who might be a political opponent - we have crossed from faithfulness into idolatry.

We've seen rhetoric from the President and others that dehumanizes immigrants and refugees - and ultimately leads to murder. Most recently we've seen his easy use of deeply racist imagery, which is itself rooted in the perceived sub-human status of Americans of African descent. We have seen truth distorted, elections undermined, and fear used as a tool of power - and an effective one at that. Because we have also seen many Christians defend these things — not reluctantly, but enthusiastically — framing political loyalty as spiritual faithfulness. Isaiah cries out: what kind of fasting is this!? Because the fast God chooses is not about securing dominance. It's about loosening burdens. Not protecting privilege — but freeing the oppressed. And not about cutting out our enemies, but drawing them in.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer faced a similar crisis in Nazi Germany when Christians fused nationalism with theology. He warned against what he called “cheap grace” — a faith that blesses power instead of challenging it. Bonhoeffer insisted that when the church aligns itself uncritically with authoritarian power, it ceases to be the church. And additionally, when the church fails to confront death-dealing power, it ceases to be prophetic. God’s revelation in Christ stands in judgment over every political system — including the ones we prefer.

And yet authoritarian temptation persists. Authoritarianism thrives on fear. It promises safety through control. It tells us that strength requires domination and that compassion is weakness. Christian nationalism often embraces this logic, reshaping Jesus into a figure of power rather than the suffering servant who washes feet and dies on a cross.

But the cross is the ultimate contradiction of empire theology. Empires proclaim victory through force. Christ reveals victory through self-giving love. Empires demand loyalty. Christ invites discipleship. Empires divide the world into allies and enemies. Christ commands love even for those who oppose us. This is the folly of the Cross. This is why today Paul tells the church in Corinth: Yet among the mature we do speak wisdom, though it is not a wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are doomed to perish. But we speak God’s wisdom, secret and hidden, which God decreed before the ages for our glory. None of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.

Isaiah today calls us back to God's original plan: “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice… to share your bread with the hungry… to bring the homeless poor into your house?” Notice how concrete this is. True worship is not national dominance. True worship is mercy embodied. And here is the hardest part: the prophet does not allow us to point fingers without examining ourselves.

Because idolatry is seductive. It feels righteous. It tells us that defending our tribe is defending God. It convinces us that power equals faithfulness. But whenever the church becomes more passionate about political victory than about justice, more concerned with cultural survival than with compassion, more committed to ideology than to truth (however inconvenient it might be to us) — the fast we practice ceases to be holy.

And so, Isaiah does what good prophets do: he calls us back. Not to neutrality — but to prophetic faithfulness. Not to silence — but to truth-telling. Not to despair — but to repentance. Because God gives a promise: “Then your light shall break forth like the dawn… you shall be called the repairer of the breach.”

Repairers of the breach. That is Christ's call for us in a divided nation. Not defenders of empire. Not chaplains to power. But witnesses to a kingdom that transcends every border and every ideology. The church is strongest when it refuses to be owned by any political movement. The church is most faithful when it speaks truth even to those it supports. The church shines brightest when it loosens burdens rather than tightening them. And the church reflects God's grace best when it can bear the hard work of repair and reconciliation.

So shout out, Isaiah says. Do not hold back. Name the idols. Resist the empire. Reject authoritarian fear. And begin to build an appetite for renewal and reunion while you act in love and witness. And follow only the crucified and victorious Christ, whose kingdom cannot be captured by any nation — only embodied through justice, mercy, and love.

Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday after Epiphany, Year A (1-25-26)

Sun, 25 Jan 2026 15:13:49 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Isaiah 9:1-4 ; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18 ; Matthew 4:12-23 ; Psalm 27:1, 5-13

It happens to us all from time to time: we find ourselves on one side of a room, and inconveniently the opposite side from the light switch, and we are completely in the dark. Shuffling around slowly and just waiting to run into the next object. Arms outstretched into that dark void, reaching for the light and hoping beyond hope that we don't end up on our faces.

That’s a pretty good description of how a lot of us feel right now. We read the news and feel our stomach tighten. We brace ourselves as soon as someone brings up politics at a family gathering. We wonder what it will be like for our kids and grandkids who are growing up in a country that's more divided, more angry, and more afraid. It can feel like we’re just trying to put one foot in front of the other without tripping.

That darkness can also feel consuming, suffocating. Darkness seems to edge in while the state continues to execute people on the street with seemingly no recourse - simply because they exercise their right to dissent. The darkness seems to grow and malign the hearts and minds of otherwise decent people who - in response to engineered fear - find a sense of power and security in acts of cruelty and petty violence. Yes, it seems the darkness has found a fertile plot in our nation's halls of power. And it's hard to know what to do about it, isn't it?

Isaiah this morning is talking to people who, too, knew that feeling well. Zebulun and Naphtali were not powerful places. They were borderlands—often invaded, often ignored, the first to suffer when empires decided to flex their muscle. These were communities who felt forgotten and expendable. Isaiah doesn’t tell them to “look on the bright side.” He names the reality: darkness and deep shadow.

But we have to remember who Isaiah was: a prophet. He proclaims, "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined." As a prophet, Isaiah is predicting something that hasn't yet come to pass - painting a new, fresh picture of the future for these people who walked in darkness. They still had to wait for the light to shine. We, however, are luckier than that.

Matthew's gospel tell us "Jesus left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: “Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles— the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

That matters because many of us have learned to think hope comes later. After the election. After the court case. After the economy stabilizes. After people calm down. But Isaiah says God doesn’t wait for the chaos to settle before showing up. God’s light breaks in while people are still confused, afraid, and worn out.

Isaiah says this light brings joy—like the joy of a good harvest or a long-awaited win. That’s not a shallow, everything-is-awesome kind of happiness. It’s the joy of relief. The joy of realizing, “Maybe we’re going to make it.” You can feel that kind of joy in small moments: when a tough conversation doesn’t explode, when someone admits they were wrong, when a community actually shows up for each other after a tragedy.

Isaiah also talks about burdens being lifted—the yoke, the bar, the rod. In other words, the things that press people down. We don’t have to look far to see those today. It’s the single parent working two jobs and still falling behind. It’s immigrants living with constant fear of what might happen to their family. It’s communities of color carrying the weight of being over-policed and under-protected. It’s teachers, healthcare workers, and public servants burned out and stretched thin. God’s light doesn’t ignore these realities; it goes straight at them.

But here’s where Isaiah surprises us. God doesn’t defeat oppression by handing us bigger weapons or louder megaphones. The boots of violence are burned, not reused. The victory doesn’t come from out-shouting, out-shaming, or out-hating the other side. That’s important in a moment when everything around us encourages escalation—meaner comments, harsher labels, less patience.

Living in God’s light means choosing a different way, even when it feels slower or weaker. It looks like refusing to dehumanize people, even when we strongly disagree. It looks like checking a story before sharing it, because truth matters. It looks like staying at the table with someone who sees the world differently, not to “win,” but to witness—to show that dignity is still possible.

Isaiah isn’t saying darkness isn’t real. He’s saying that it’s not in charge anymore. The light has already come. And that changes how we walk. We walk with courage instead of panic. With honesty instead of denial. With hope that doesn’t depend on things going our way.

We may still be in a shadowed place as a nation. But Isaiah reminds us that God specializes in shining light right there—on the edges, among the overlooked, in the places everyone else has given up on. And if that light is real, then our calling is simple, but not easy: to walk as people who believe it’s already shining.

Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany, Year A (1-18-26)

Sun, 18 Jan 2026 18:35:36 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon

Readings : Isaiah 49:1-7 ; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9 ; John 1:29-42 ; Psalm 40:1-12

Our old pal John the Baptist sees Jesus approaching the crowd today. And I envision him really being in his element. The news of all that took place at Jesus' baptism last week has made its rounds. People are curious, and excited, and some still skeptical I'd assume. And in the midst of this hubbub, John sees Jesus approaching the crowd:

“Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

These are familiar words to some of us. And maybe too familiar. Because it's pretty easy to forget that this declaration is pretty big news. And not just for you and me, but potentially for everyone. Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Not sins in the plural. Sin in the singular. John's not just talking about individual moral failures. He's naming something far larger and more destructive—the deep, pervasive power that distorts human life, that fractures community, that bends systems away from God’s purposes.

The sin of the world is the condition that makes injustice seem normal, makes violence seem necessary, and makes fear seem wise. It's the web of brokenness that entangles hearts, relationships, institutions, and nations. And John dares to proclaim that Jesus comes not to ignore it, excuse it, or manage it—but to take it away. Imagine that reality today.

To talk about sin this way - or at all - can be uncomfortable; especially in a culture that prefers to individualize everything. We're often taught that sin is merely about personal behavior: what I did wrong, what you did wrong, what rules were broken. But the Gospel refuses to let us stop there.

Sin is not just what we do; it also has a way of shaping us if we let it. It's the lie that some lives matter more than others. It's the fear that teaches us to treat strangers as threats. It's the pride that convinces us we can achieve security by excluding others. It's the apathy that allows injustice to continue because it does not affect us directly.

This is why the Gospel is not content with personal piety alone. Jesus does not come only to forgive individuals—he comes to heal the world.

That truth stood at the heart of the ministry of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. - whom we remember tomorrow - and who understood that racism was not merely a matter of individual prejudice, but a moral and spiritual disease. And one that weaves into laws, economies, and habits of thought. Things like segregation, voter suppression, economic exploitation—these were not accidents. They were symptoms of what Scripture calls the sin of the world. And King insisted that such sin must be named before it can be healed. Silence, he said, is itself a form of violence. Neutrality in the face of injustice is not neutrality at all—it sides with the status quo. It is fuel that feeds the sin of the world.

We live in a time when immigrants fleeing violence and poverty are spoken of as burdens or invaders rather than as neighbors made in the image of God. We live in a time when fear is weaponized to justify cruelty, and when entire communities are reduced to talking points instead of human lives. This isn't simply a matter of policy opinion - it's sin at work—sin that dehumanizes, excludes, and divides. Likewise, when democratic institutions are weakened, when truth is treated as optional, when participation is restricted rather than protected, we are witnessing more than political dysfunction. We're seeing the sin of the world at play—the drive to dominate rather than serve, to control rather than collaborate, to secure power rather than seek the common good.

The Gospel tells us that these forces - the powers and principalities of this world - that they are real, they are powerful, and they are destructive. And from Washington DC to Minneapolis to our own neighborhoods, the rotten stench of sin fills the air. Putrid offerings to the idols of power, and wealth, and individualism. All totally outside of the scope of the Gospel of Christ.

Luckily, that same Christ came to do something about sin. John points to Jesus and says, “Here is the Lamb of God.” The Lamb does not conquer by violence. The Lamb does not rule by fear. The Lamb absorbs the world’s sin and exposes it for what it is—empty, corrosive, and incapable of producing life.

When Andrew encounters Jesus, he goes and finds his brother Simon and says, “We have found the Messiah.” And when Simon comes to Jesus, Jesus looks at him and gives him a new name. Grace does not leave us untouched. It re-forms us. It calls us out of old identities shaped by fear and into new ones shaped by love. This is what happens when the sin of the world begins to loosen its grip. People change. Communities change. The future opens.

Dr. King believed this with his whole life. He believed that love could dismantle hatred, that truth could outlast lies, and that justice—though delayed—couldn't be denied forever. He believed that the Lamb of God was still at work, taking away the sin of the world one transformed life, one courageous act, one faithful witness at a time.

So when Jesus asks us, “What are you looking for?” he's asking whether we are willing to confront sin honestly—both within us and beyond us—and whether we trust God enough to follow him into that hard and holy work of repentance. Of turning around. Of coming home to God and one another.

Here is the Lamb of God - Not the Lamb who excuses the world’s sin, but the Lamb who takes it away. God has come to do something about sin. Come and see, and then go bear witness to this world-changing, life-giving Good News.

Amen.

Sermon for the First Sunday after Epiphany, Year A (1-11-26)

Sun, 11 Jan 2026 21:05:07 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Isaiah 42:1-9 ; Acts 10:34-43 ; Matthew 3:13-17 ; Psalm 29

Why on Earth does Jesus come to be baptized?

That is the quiet question at the heart of this day. Jesus arrives at the Jordan River, where people are confessing sins, repenting, and preparing for judgment. And he, Jesus, steps into line. John the Baptist immediately senses that something is not right. “I need to be baptized by you ,” John says, “and do you come to me?” John recognizes what we are tempted to forget: Jesus does not belong in that water. John knows before we do, that Jesus and sin - do not mix. And yet, Jesus insists. “Let it be so now,” he says, “for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

By recalling this somewhat confusing event each year we proclaim something essential about who God is and how God chooses to be with us. Jesus does not stand apart from us. He stands with us. He enters the water not because he needs renewal, but because we do. Now, this may not sound dramatic at first, but we know how rare this kind of identification really is. Think about how often people with power, status, or authority keep a careful distance from those who are struggling. We see it in workplaces, in schools, even sometimes in families. The one who “doesn’t have to” gets to step aside. But Jesus never does this: the Son of God chooses solidarity over distance.

The prophet Isaiah gives us language for this kind of Savior. “Here is my servant, whom I uphold,” God says, “my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” This servant does not cry out or break the bruised reed. He does not overpower the weak or shame the vulnerable. Instead, he brings justice quietly, faithfully, patiently. So, when Jesus steps into the Jordan, Isaiah’s promise takes on flesh. And most notably, Jesus doesn't begin his ministry with miracles or sermons. He begins it by standing shoulder to shoulder... with sinners. With those who have run out of answers. With the ones who need a new life that they can't make for themselves. With people, like me and you. The Beloved Son places himself where broken people are already standing.

That matters for us. Because many of us come to church carrying the quiet belief that God is most present when we are at our best—when our faith is strong, our lives are in order, our prayers are confident. But Jesus begins his ministry not in the temple, not on a mountaintop - but in muddy water. It's more like the God who shows up in the hospital room, not with answers but with presence. Or the God who sits at the kitchen table with someone staring at unpaid bills. Or the God who looks to the horizon of a new chapter life as age changes the reality of daily living. Jesus meets people where renewal and need are already present.

For many people, this is the hardest part to believe. We are used to affirming words being withheld until we’ve earned them. Approval comes after performance. Love comes with conditions. But here - before Jesus has preached a sermon, healed a disease, or gone to the cross - God declares delight in this ministry of solidarity. That is Good News for anyone who has ever felt like they are only as valuable as their productivity, their success, or their ability to hold things together. The heavens open. The Spirit descends like a dove. The Father speaks. And in this moment, the Church sees not only who Jesus is, but who God is. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are revealed—not in an abstract doctrine, but in saving action. God is present, relational, and actively involved in the healing of the world.

Peter later reflects on this moment in Acts when he says, “ You know the message God sent… how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power.” Peter is clear: everything that follows—Jesus’ healing, teaching, forgiving, and even his death and resurrection—flows out of this beginning. Jesus’ baptism marks the start of a ministry that is for all people. God shows no partiality.

That matters because many of us quietly wonder if we belong. Whether our doubts disqualify us. Whether our past still defines us. Whether our faith is “strong enough.” Jesus’ baptism answers that question before we can even ask it. He stands in the water with sinners before anyone has proven anything, signed on to any doctrine, or given anything of themselves.

In our baptism, we are joined to Christ. His life becomes our life. His death becomes our death. And His resurrection - well that part becomes our ultimate hope. Baptism is not primarily about our memory of the moment or our understanding of it. It is about God’s promise which empowers it.

That's why baptism still speaks when faith feels thin. When prayer feels dry. When life feels heavier than expected. Baptism tells us that God’s claim on us does not disappear when we struggle.

This day we remember that Jesus did not come to save us from afar. He came close. He entered the water. He took his place among us. And because he did, we can trust that there is no place we go—no grief, no fear, no failure—where God has not already chosen to be. The God who speaks over the waters still speaks today. Not to condemn, but to claim. Not to shame, but to name us as beloved, and to walk us into a renewed life.

And that is Good News worth returning to, again and again.

Amen.

Sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas, Year A (12-28-25)

Sun, 28 Dec 2025 06:45:17 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Isaiah 61:10-62:3 ; Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7 ; John 1:1-18 ; Psalm 147 :1-12

Christmas trains us to ask a particular question, and often without realizing it. We begin to ask, "What am I getting?" And not just what gifts will I receive - but, what feelings should this season deliver—joy, peace, wonder, hope? Even in worship we can slip into that mindset. Will this service move me? Will it help me feel like it's Christmas?

But the gospel interrupts that question with another, deeper one: Not, what will we get? But, who do we belong to ?

From the beginning, the Christian faith has confessed that Christmas is not about consumption, but about communion. Not about acquiring something, but about being claimed by someone . Christmas is nothing less than the eternal Son of God - God from God, Light from Light - taking flesh for us and make one giant leap in the project of salvation.

Paul names this mystery in Galatians today: “When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law.” This is not sentimental language. It is theological precision. The Son is truly sent by the Father. He is truly born of Mary. He truly enters our human condition, subject to the law, subject to weakness, subject even to death. And then Paul tells us why: “In order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.”

Redemption comes before adoption - and this order of operations is critical. Christ does not simply affirm us as we are; he saves us. He enters our bondage to sin and death in order to liberate us. And having redeemed us, he does something even more astonishing—he restores us to what we were created to be. Children of God.

Adoption is not just metaphorical sentiment here - it's salvation’s goal. We aren't merely forgiven sinners; we are incorporated into Christ. We are brought into the Son’s own relationship with the Father by the power of the Holy Spirit. And John’s Gospel - poetic and rich - intones the same truth in cosmic language. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” The one born in Bethlehem is not a created messenger or a spiritual teacher. He is the eternal Word through whom all things were made. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

This is both the scandal and the glory of Christian faith: God does not save us from a distance. God saves us by drawing near. The Word assumes our humanity so that our humanity might be healed, restored, and drawn into divine life. John then says, “To all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God.” Notice this language carefully. This is not self-made spirituality. This is not moral achievement. This is not simply leaving the world better than we found it. This is grace . To receive Christ is to receive what God has done for us in him, and to trust that his life, death, and resurrection are sufficient.

The manger tells us what kind of God this is. God does not arrive in power that overwhelms. God arrives in humility that invites. The Son of God comes not as a consumer of our devotion but as a gift given for the life of the world. He comes dependent, vulnerable, and small, revealing that salvation is not something we purchase, but something we receive.

And because of this, Christmas becomes a bit like Halloween, actually. Christmas speaks directly to our deepest fears. We fear that we are not enough. We fear that we have failed too often. We fear that we must earn our place even with God. But the Incarnation declares otherwise. God becomes what we are so that we might realize and accept - by grace - what Christ is and what we are. Beloved children of God.

Paul makes this unmistakably Trinitarian: because we are children God sends the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” Salvation is not merely a legal change; it is a relational reality. The Spirit unites us to Christ and teaches us to pray with Christ’s own voice.

And in this life-long conversion we also begin to adopt Christ's own heart. The love of doing the will of God. The constant pull for communion with God, and seeking warmth and meaning in the service to God's creation.

Salvation. Then adoption. Then transformation.

This is not consumer religion. This is covenant love. Consumers are anxious because belonging is conditional. Children rest because belonging is secure. Consumers are valued for performance. Children are valued because they are loved. At Christmas, the Church does not celebrate a feeling. We confess a truth: that in Jesus Christ, God has acted decisively to save, adopt, and dwell with us. God does not hand us a receipt or a set of terms. God gives us a Son—and in that Son, gives us a home.

So this Christmas, receive the gift the Church has proclaimed for centuries. Receive Christ. Receive forgiveness. Receive adoption. Receive transformation. And hear the good news at the heart of the Incarnation: in Christ, you are no longer a slave to sin, but a child. And if a child, then an heir by the grace of God.

Amen.

Sermon for Christmas Eve, Year A (12-24-25)

Wed, 24 Dec 2025 02:51:21 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Isaiah 62:6-12 ; Titus 3:4-7 ; Luke 2:8-20 ; Psalm 97

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.

On this holy night we hear several accounts of someone who saw something that changed everything.

We hear of shepherds - the ones in their society who were seldom considered or remembered who saw the heavenly hosts, God's messengers. Who were the first to hear of the big thing God was doing in our reality. The first, not the last. A clear reminder that the Almighty is especially concerned with the least among us. So much so that this forgotten, lowly group would take the news of God's rescue plan into the world. Something that changes everything.

And we hear of Mary, the new mother who of course does know what God is up to. And in the midst of the shepherds telling her what they'd seen - in their exclamation of the Supremely Good News that the Messiah had indeed come as had been foretold and that it was her baby boy; in the midst of all this commotion and all that the shepherds were saying, Luke tells us that Mary "treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart."

This matters because Christmas is full of words. Familiar words. Beautiful words. Words we hear every year: “Do not be afraid, good news of great joy, glory to God in the highest.” We hear them so often that they can slide right past us. But Mary shows us another way of receiving the story—not rushing to the next task, not reducing it to a lesson or a slogan, but letting it sink in.

To ponder something is to turn it over and over in your heart and mind, to weigh it, to live with unanswered questions. Mary is not piecing together a neat explanation of what God is doing. She is sitting with mystery. How could the tiny, vulnerable infant at her breast be Savior of the world? How could angels speak first not to kings or priests, but to shepherds? How could glory look like this?

Mary has no answers to any of these questions. But she takes it all in, and holds it there, and ponders all this in her heart. And the mystery is no less real.The workings of salvation are no less in motion just because she can't quite figure it all out. This is the faith of the Mother of God.

Faith, Luke suggests, is not just about what we proclaim. It is also about what we hold. What we ponder. And what we hope to be true even in the absence of proof. In a world that moves fast, that demands instant reactions and immediate clarity - Mary invites us into a slower, deeper faith. To treasure is to resist distraction. To ponder is to refuse shallow certainty. It is to say, “I don’t fully understand what God is doing, but I will keep my heart open to it.”

This Christmas story does not end with Mary speaking or explaining or even proclaiming - but with her pondering. And perhaps that is where it invites us, too. Not to rush past the mystery of God-with-us, not to domesticate it or even try to figure it out, but simply to carry it with us into the year ahead. To consider what incarnate grace could look like - be like - in our lives and in this hurting, angry, fearful world we're living in.

The angels departed. The shepherds will returned to their fields. The night will grew quiet again. And we will take down our trees and go back to work. And pay off credit cards, and make (and break) New Years resolutions. And get back to "normal life". But the Word made flesh will remain. And like Mary, we are called to treasure these words, to ponder them in our hearts, trusting that God is still at work—often quietly, often unexpectedly—bringing glory out of humility and offering salvation out of what - and who - the world overlooks.

"Ponder anew what the Almighty can do!" the old hymn proclaims. If this is your fifth Christmas or 95th Christmas God is here, with you. It is a right and good and joyful thing to ponder what salvation might mean for you now, this year, this night even.

Hold it there in your heart. Have faith. And be joyful on this most Holy Night.

Amen

Sermon for Advent 4, Year A (12-21-25)

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 02:18:40 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Isaiah 7:10-16 ; Romans 1:1-7 ; Matthew 1:18-25 ; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

Restore us, O Lord of hosts; show the light of your countenance and we shall be saved.

Well, folks. Here we are the last Sunday of Advent. This year as we've committed to being clear-eyed about the truth that Advent isn't really about Christmas - but rather Christ's next appearing - we've been focusing on what have been traditionally called The Four Last Things : death, judgement, heaven - and today - hell. Now that I think of it, maybe that has something to do with why I haven't seen too many new faces here these last few weeks...

At any rate, we might as well finish out strong. So, to hell with it!

All jokes aside, this is an important topic to explore even if it feels like a weird time of year to explore it. Because, in my estimation the broader church has developed over the years a kind of theological hellscape, a spectrum of Sheol if you will. On one end we see and hear that hell is - more than anything - God's greatest tool of persuasion. An ever-present, fiery threat of punishment for those who would dare to stray from the teachings of the church, and home to supernatural beings who stepped of line... upstairs, if you catch my drift. This kind of hell is very much used as a weapon in many cases. It does a lot of damage, and (rightfully so) it turns many people away from the faith.

On the other end of this diabolical data set find a) either a purely metaphorical hell, or b) no hell at all. (Only an outdated concept invented by the medieval church to ensure conformity to its social and political agenda of the time, thank you very much.) This is the spot where we'll hear things like: hell is of our own making, hell is here and now, hell is a state of mind. Or, we just don't ever talk about hell at all.

And I'll admit that I was born on one end and migrated my way pretty much all the way over to the other end of this theological spectrum. But like most things theological, my deconstruction and reconstruction journey is pulling me somewhere toward the middle. Maybe that's because I've seen and experienced too much that feels like hell - or at least the power of hell - to be able to remain convinced that it doesn't exist at all.

Restore us, O Lord God of hosts; show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved.

In his short fictional work The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis invites us to consider that there is a relationship between heaven and hell. Not based on judgment and punishment, but on grace and choice . Here's the SparkNotes version: Every so often, a bus picks up a group from hell (which is basically just a more boring, super-isolating, grey and gloomy version of our world), and this group of souls is invited to go to heaven. However, most of these souls soon find out that heaven is real . Very real. Like, realer than real. So real, in fact, that the grass is like hard, sharp, immovable glass. And the water is so real that it's solid to these un-transfigured souls. And most notably, the further these souls follow their angelic welcome party into that heavenly country, the more it hurts . So, when offered an eternity of freedom, and joy, and perfect union with their Creator, let's just say some of these souls decide to get back on the bus and go back to the comforts of hell.

I could go on all day about this book, but honestly you could read it faster. And you absolutely should. But the point of interest for us today, I think Lewis would say, is that hell is self-chosen. People are not forced into separation from God; they cling to habits, resentments, and self-centered desires that make communion with God difficult if not impossible. Heaven is offered freely, but it requires surrender.

Show us the light of your countenance, Oh Lord God of hosts, and we shall be saved.

The interesting thing about beholding the radiant face of God is that sometimes - like the sun - its warmth also burns. It is ever good, ever holy, ever inviting, and ever healing. But the light of God's countenance seeks the real you. The real us - unblemished by sin and self-deception. So it can have a tendency to burn, and understandably we may choose to look away. The choice is always ours, and hell will always welcome us back.

I caught a glimpse of the power of hell this last week. Not just in the reality and direct aftermath of the Brown University shooting, but more so in the comment section. As a general rule I don't spend much time in the comment section of, well, anything really. Because akin to Dante' famous Inferno each website should post above its comment section "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." And indeed that is what I saw. In the breathtaking callousness and hateful suspicion of so many of these comments, I saw the sheer abandonment of hope. And the assumption that we have been forsaken - that we are God-forsaken. Hell. That's what I kept thinking: this must be hell, or at least a glimpse of it.

This sentiment echoes, of course, the words of a dying Christ on his cross: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And alas, there it is. The reason why we need to stop at hell the Sunday before Christmas. It servers as a reminder, dear friends, that the powers of hell: the temptation to accept its sinister invitation to be forsaken, to abandon all hope, and to do all in our power to ensure others join us in that forsaken place - these powers of hell were checked the second an infants cry rang out into our world.

God would descend into our hell - of our own making or otherwise - and reach out a hand to invite us back to God's own reality: where hope, peace, joy, and love are realer than real. This act is completed at his resurrection, and it is carried out on his cross. But it is begun at his birth - the first Advent of his transfiguring light, small and lying in a manger.

Show us the light of your countenance, Oh Lord God of hosts, and we shall be saved.

Amen.

Sermon for Advent 3, Year A (12-14-25)

Sun, 14 Dec 2025 04:04:27 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Isaiah 35:1-10; Canticle 15 (The Song of Mary); James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

"Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us..."

We're supposed to speak of joy this third Sunday of Advent. But I think that this sobering, sorrowful morning I - for one - need to be first reminded of God's power. Because when so many corners of the world seem totally shrouded in deep darkness, in dank, joyless violence; when so much seems impossibly broken and un-mendable; when young lives are ripped from this world by the grasp of senseless, belligerent evil; when that violence comes to our own backyard how dare we speak of joy? What are we to do here on a day like today if we're being honest?

I - for one - am heartbroken. I feel small, and frightened, and furious. I need God's power today. Stir up your power O Lord - speedily help and deliver us.

I was napping after an absolutely joyful morning in Boston yesterday, celebrating and giving thanks to God as five new priests were ordained. One of whom is a very good friend of mine whose faith is an example to me, and who was truly born for this ministry. It felt so right, and so good. And the Spirit's presence and most importantly - her power was palpable. And while maybe not everything was okay in that moment, man it sure felt like it would be.

A few hours later, Charlie woke me up from a nap to tell me that an active shooter was on campus at Brown. And just like we've heard so many say before my first thought was, "No, this can't be happening...not here."

How quickly joy can fade. No. How quickly joy can vanish - can be taken. I suppose that's why some say that joy is the most vulnerable of all human emotions. And why so many refuse to feel it at all. It's so easy to lose.

But nearly as soon as that sharp void of joy took shape something else began to hold that wound. To accompany the fear, and confusion and heartbreak I felt. It was God's guiding, protecting power; too honest to refute the hurt and pain, but too good, too big, to leave me there alone. Every phone call and text asking in on Charlie and his students and staff, the company of our friends who live near campus taking refuge with their toddler in our home as the search for the shooter was carried out in their neighborhood. God's power was clear in the presence of the good, and the right, and the loving, and holy. Not because of the evil that prompted it, but in spite of it.

Lord, high and holy, meek and lowly,

Thou hast brought me to the valley of vision,

Where I live in the depths, but see thee in the heights;

Hemm ed in by mountains of sin, I behold thy glory.

Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up,

That to be low is to be high,

That the broken heart is the healed heart.

That prayer was penned by the Puritans, who were not particularly known for their strong charism of joy. But in some way, perhaps they had a more honest understanding of it. And to be fair, this paradoxical approach to faith in God's power and goodness is hardly original. Mary, the mother of Jesus, prays with the seeming opposites of our existence in the most glorious Magnificat:

He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.

He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.

Because you see, one of the great gifts of our faith tradition is that it invites us to admit that as bad as things things are now, that they've been bad before, too. That there's been a people of faith who have in times past looked around at their world and personal reality and have similarly said, "This is too broken for us to fix.

Stir up your power oh Lord, we need your help!"

And we hear stories of when God has a reply to that plea. Sometimes we hear of mountain tops - of a booming disembodied voice of God that makes it clear that someone else is in charge here. And that everything will be okay in time.

But more often we hear stories of God speaking through people like you and me. Speaking through finite, fragile, humans. Even weirdos like John the Baptizer who throughout this Advent season has been bidding us, "Take heart, something is coming. Or rather, some one is coming. Someone who is a deliverer, a fixer, a savior, a messiah. The one who will bring joy into this world once and for all."

Although that joy - that light - will still have darkness to contend with, the darkness will not overcome it. And that is because the God of the universe did not put on our same human experience - become enfleshed - did not come into our world to push the difficult parts of our experience to the side. The holy Child of God, who would know pain, and grief, and fear, and anger, and great loss - that Christ child did not come to avoid and simply overcome those realities. But rather he came to sanctify them - to transform them into something true, even if it is a difficult truth.

Our present difficult truth is that the soul of this country is sick. And it's been made sick by the sin of violence, and the idolatry of guns and toxic independence. Better laws do, and will help, and it is equally sinful to refuse to pass them. But laws don't heal souls, even if they save lives.

Lucky for us our Great Physician loves to heal. It's a specialty of his, actually. Emmanuel - God with us. Not just in joy - but in all of it. Remember this, beloved family of God. The joy that is promised will come ... in time. While we wait together, bearing witness to each others' pain - never, never forget that God is indeed with us.

Amen.

Sermon for Advent 2, Year A (12-7-25)

Sun, 07 Dec 2025 05:25:31 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12; Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.

Oh great, another cheery holiday message from our kill-joy vicar!

By the end of this I do hope that you, like me, will see the concept of divine judgement as Good News. But let's work up to it... shall we?

The Root of Jesse. While the other depictions of the incarnate God speak to what God will be up to in this human world, The Root of Jesse reminds us that this savior does in fact come from somewhere. Some place. Some people. Some family.

Now, a quick reminder here that Jesse was father to King David - who became the first great king of the people of Israel. And, of course, who established the royal line that leads all the way to....... Mary! Who then bears God into the world as the mother of the Christ Child. Who comes from this Root which we track all the way back to Jesse.

But take a look at the first line from Isaiah's prophesy. Jesse doesn't have a root there does he? What does he have instead?

A stump. How exciting. Someone tell me what makes a stump a stump...

Yes. While roots turn our minds toward growth and opportunity and stability and potential, stumps are basically just dead trees. And they rarely become more than that. In fact, we go to great lengths to get them out of our yards - useless eyesores that they seem to be.

And yet. A shoot shall come out from the Stump of Jesse. And a branch shall grow out of his roots. And after a lot of other things are made right "the Root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious", Isaiah promises.

If you've ever seen new growth come out of a stump, you'll know it looks a little goofy. It's totally outsized, and it generally sticks out of the side at an awkward angle. And honestly, it seems relatively inconsequential. Because after all, it will take another lifetime - or even several - for that shoot to look like a tree again.

Jesse has a stump today because originally things went well for the dynasty that his son David built up, with God's help. That family ruled for nearly five centuries, and there were several bumps in the road, yes. But, they maintained power one way or another, and because that the people thought they were still in lock stop with God's plan. That they were sill entitled to God's good graces.

And then the Babylonians came, and they took that power. And they took them out of their homes, and they destroyed their temple. And seemingly destroyed their access to God. The great tree of the Davidic Dynasty had been swiftly axed, and now only a stump was left to rot in the vast forest of history.

But you've met Isaiah - you know the rest of the story. A shoot shall come out of this stump; this seemingly forgotten and thrown-away people who tried as they may to walk in lock-step with God; and who failed miserably. And who, yes, had to repent - to turn around - and to come back to the God who still held out a hand. A shoot comes out of this line and grows, slowly - oh so slowly into salvation.

John 3:16 is the most memorized verse in the entire bible: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life." But it's verse 17 that's actually the Good News: "Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him."

But as John the Baptist calls out loudly for us to hear today (and to remember always), Jesus has and will again come to Judge the world. Judge, but not necessarily condemn. Judge for the same reason we need courts and judges in our own time: to ensure justice (ideally), to point out what is wrong, or broken, or in need of restitution. Christ comes to Judge, because to leave us to our own devices would not be salvation - it would be abandonment.

But if it's not all about sheep and goats being separated, and about sending the good little boys and girls to heaven and the naughty ones to burn in hellfire for all eternity what is it about, this judgement? Isaiah gives us the assist once again:

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid,

The calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.

The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together;

and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.

The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,

and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den.

They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain;

for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples;
the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious.

My friends, for things to be alright they have to be set right. Judgement is what restores creation to the dream that God intended for it to be. And just a bit further beyond John 3:16 we get it even more clearly: "For this is the basis of Judgement: God has sent light into the world !" And as always, we have an unchangeable, precious, and powerful gift of free will to do one of two things; walk into that light, let it's fire transform us, burn away what needs to go, and refine what is holy in God's sight.

Or, we can choose the darkness. We can go it alone. It is always our choice.

I'll leave you with a poem by Steve Garnaas-Holmes:

Expect not a regime imposed, but a wonder unfolding.
A healer, weeping, bends over a sick and wounded world.
Do all you can to resist the temptation to push away the hand.
(How have we lived, trying so hard to fix what can only be healed?)
Repentance is no great work, but allowing the miracle to take place.
Accept the wondrous mystery, cries the prophet,

for grace is so close to the surface.

Amen.

Sermon for Advent 1, Year A (11-30-25)

Sun, 30 Nov 2025 06:18:32 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44; Psalm 122

Well, now that I've weaseled my way into your lives a bit these past fifteen months or so, I feel a little more secure in taking the risk to tell you all this year that Advent...well...how do I say this...

Advent isn't really about Christmas. Not really, at least.

The once and future. The already and not yet. The now and yet present. A season of holy darkness, of hopeful expectation. Of cries yet answered - and somehow - of salvation already gained. Advent is one big season of paradoxes. Its main goal is not to prep us for Christmas (the first coming), but for the Second Advent, the second coming of Christ. For the end of this age, which, despite a lot of effort to convince us otherwise is actually really, really Good News.

How we got from the Four Last Things - which are Advent's traditional themes of Death, Judgement, Heaven, and Hell - isn't a great mystery to me, especially considering the notable PR issue we've had in the church for about the last two generations. Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love are way better taglines for a season that is being increasingly consumed by, well, consumerism. (Not that these are fruitless themes upon which to meditate. Lord knows we need these reminders too, especially now.)

But, all it takes is a relatively close look at the words that bathe us in quiet - if not fragile - confidence during this most important season. To see that to rush past the Last Things - Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell - is to miss the real point of this season.

Take for example our collect today, which is considered one of the greatest hits of the prayer book: "Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal."

You've gotta admit, it does strike a good balance of hope and that fear-and-trembling bit we're often recommended to take up from time to time. Or consider that old standard Advent hymn:

O come, Immanuel and ransom captive Israel,
that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear .

O come, O Branch of Jesse's stem unto your own and rescue them!
From depths of hell your people save, and give them victory o'er the grave.

O come, O Key of David, come and open wide our heavenly home.
Make safe for us the heavenward road and bar the way to death's abode.

O come, O King of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind.
Bid all our sad divisions cease, and be yourself our King of Peace.

Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to you, oh Israel!

Sorry to break it to you, but we ain't talkin about no baby here! This isn't just a carol. This is a plea; a plea from the deep darkness where Advent begins. And where it will remain until that time when Christ comes in glorious majesty to set things right. To free us once and for all. We're not there, not quite yet. But when we get there this hymn will sound out as much like an Easter anthem as it does a haunting advent tune. Rejoice ! Emmanuel shall come to you, oh Israel!

You see, it's Lent and Easter when we remember the important thing that God has already done, and that need not happen again. It's Christmas when we rejoice in the first coming - that precious fragile advent of God's enfleshment to be one with us in the Christ Child. But in this season of Advent we wait for something that hasn't yet come. The Second Advent, the return of the King to finish the saving work he began all those years ago. We wait. We watch, we keep awake and we wait. This is the good, hard work of Advent, and its critical work for those of us who choose year after year, season after season, to pattern our lives around this Gospel business. Around the Good News that God is crazy about us, and that God knows best for us.

We follow a path carved out by Jesus' witness and then sustained by God's Holy Spirit. The Way, as it was called by the earliest followers of Christ. The Way, a journey which will probably require some waiting. Waiting which can make us feel small and a bit scared the way waiting so often does. Waiting in the midst of pain or anxiety over the future. It's never a fun business, only a necessary one in this mortal life. We wait not to look for God's quick fix. Rather, we wait and watch for what it looks like for God to draw near. And in God's arriving - in that cosmic advent - we notice how the divine presence begins to make things new. Often a slow, sometimes painful process of renewal. The birth pangs of the New Creation.

Now, of course, the million dollar question is: When? When will this happen? How long must we wait? I'd like a new creation now, please! This one is feeling a little, well, busted.

No one knows, Jesus tells us today from Matthews perspective. No one but the Creator. No human, no angel. Not even the Son (which is a sermon all its own, so I'm to just leave it sitting right there...you're welcome). No one knows: only the Creator. And that also, my friends, is actually Good News! All of it is in its own amazing way: Death, Judgement, Heaven, and - yes - even Hell and The End of This Age. All Good News. All gracious gifts to set you free. So that you may take with confidence and peace the hand of your God into the next age.

Oh Come, Emmanuel.

Amen.

Sermon for the Last Sunday After Pentecost, Year C: Christ the King (11-23-25)

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 07:03:12 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Jeremiah 23:1-6 ; Psalm 46 ; Colossians 1:11-20 ; Luke 23:33-43

In the aftermath of WWI the pope at the time, Pius XI, felt a need to address what he and others saw as "increasing secularism, the rise of authoritarianism in Europe, and an undeniable sentiment of despair sweeping across the western world." Fragile world economics had pushed people everywhere to place their even more fragile hope in strongmen and to take hold of the hollow promises these men offered: of security and prosperity - even at the expense of freedom.

On December 11, 1925 Pius declared: "manifold evils in the world were due to the fact that the majority of men had thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law out of their lives; that these had no place either in private affairs or in politics: and we said further, that as long as individuals and states refused to submit to the rule of our Savior, there would be no really hopeful prospect of a lasting peace among nations."

And bing bang boom, presto chango we've got the Feast of Christ The King!

But let's admit, today's sensibilities around religious liberty and interfaith cooperation still make the words of Pius' declaration come off as pretty icky, I'll admit. A bit of bible-thumpy-, forcing-Jesus-down-your-throat kind of rhetoric. Also, it's important to say that this rhetoric is not a far leap from painting (intentionally or not) other faiths as dangerous or at least threatening to peace and goodwill among the nations.

We are right to have become critical of this kind of rhetoric, and I think Jesus blesses that care and concern today. After all, he carried out his ministry and called his followers within the context of a multi-faith, religiously diverse culture. And he did it with peace and humility and open-heartedness. And like I always say: if it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for us.

But let's also admit that the troubling trends that Pius XI felt compelled to counter, those trends seem awfully familiar today, don't they. We have a growing secularism that is - yes - justifiably unseating the blind and boastful power of militant Christianity from the halls of power. (This is a good thing because that is not the faith Jesus left us.)

And at the same time we have a secularism that is also robbing entire generations of meaning-making tools. We have people young and old struggling to make sense of this holy thing we call life - challenging and turbulent as it can be. We have only to look around to see the outcomes of fear-based political decisions. The US is not an exception: we have gotten into bed with authoritarianism in the hopes of feeling great again about ourselves.

And these among other variables are adding to an increasing level of despair: mental illness remains at crisis levels, senseless mass violence continues to plague our hope for a peaceful life, and people are going to great lengths to feel nothing at all.

So, maybe Pius was onto something after all. Maybe it just needs a little translating for our time.

One way this translation has happened is that some denominations have begun to refer to this feast day as "The Reign of Christ", rather than Christ the King. I appreciate how effective this is at evening out the gendered language. After all, there's no reason we couldn't be following the daughter of God, Christ the Queen and live among the blessing of Father, Daughter, and Holy Spirit. But, that's just not what we were handed down, so please don't shoot the messenger.

And the "Reign of Christ" does still hang on to one important aspect of what this day is seeking to remind us. Not only that Christ is sovereign both in a temporal and cosmic sense, but that this Christ is a different kind of ruler; defined by self-giving love, humility, and service. rather than by a lust for power and vindication, and fueled by unexamined daddy issues.

The only lasting snag I see in this thoughtful re-naming has to do with what role Christ plays in our individual lives. Meditating on the Reign of Christ as an abstract theological idea is one thing. But declaring Christ to be your own king, the sovereign of your very life - that hits a bit differently, doesn't it? We're Americans, dang it! We ain't got no kings! In fact no small number of us have been waving signs around saying as much lately...

But in a beautiful (if not humbling) stroke of theological genius, Luke today reminds us that those of us who profess faith in Christ as God of very God do, in fact, have a king. A different king of King. A crucified King.

The older I get the more it makes sense to hand over more and more of this living, this being, this life to the Christ who laid his own on the line just to show me what it looks like to really live. Who shows me that dying to self - and yes, maybe even dying to some kinds of freedoms - is what makes me truly alive. And alive enough to begin to see that thin holiness that pervades every aspect of this wonderful creation.

As this species continues to kill itself and the rest of this earth in the vain hope of controlling it, owning it, and profiting from it, I continue to gaze up in wonder at that cross. When I want to throw my hands up and say, "We're done with. It's over. There's no saving us now," I look up there and remember the God who not only said - but showed - that the only way to the light is through the darkness. But that he would go first.

I'll throw my luck in with that one. Christ my King, my Sovereign, and my God.

Amen.

Sermon for the Feast of All Saints, Year C (Transferred, 11-2-25)

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 07:50:44 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Isaiah 1:10-18 ; Psalm 32:1-8 ; 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12 ; Luke 19:1-10

For all the Saint's who from their labors rest. I sing a song of the saints of God, patient and brave and true, who toiled and fought and lived and died for the Lord they loved and knew.

Even in some of our dearest hymns sainthood seems like a lot of work. I mean, being a saint is more or less just being a better Christian than everyone else, right? It's an unattainable status for most of us even if we'd like to be able to admit that we're inching our way there. Who doesn't want to make God proud, after all?

It's a term we throw around pretty often. Some saints are the official Capital S Saints - vetted and named and accepted world-wide as exemplars of faith and integrity. And seemingly often using that chumminess with the Almighty to carry out great feats, inspire the masses toward faith in Jesus, and even be known to be responsible for a miracle or two.

But are we sure that's the full picture of sainthood?

Lauren Winner is a professor of Christian spirituality at Duke Divinity school. During a visit to one of my seminary classes we were talking with her about what makes a saint, well, a saint. Was it someone who was extra good? Someone who made it look easy to follow Jesus? Someone who just seemed to be way better at saying no to extra dessert, or always had a dollar to give someone on the street? Or maybe even most importantly, someone who never had a doubt about God? A doubt about God's goodness? A doubt about God's existence, even?

Dr. Winner then went on to share stories with us about women she met while serving as a chaplain in the women's prison near her home in North Carolina. And there, she said, she also met a saint or two. And it was through this particular work that she developed one working definition of a saint:

A saint is someone who is called into a particular and peculiar intimacy with God that is fruitful for other people.

Notice here that there isn't much to do with a rap sheet, or a plaque listing a bunch of incredible deeds accomplished all while holding an impeccable reputation intact. Instead, it centers around a life lived with God in a way that others notice. It's as much about responding to God authentically as it necessarily is about good deeds. (Although God's spirit does generally prompt us to carry those out from time to time.) And I guess when you think about it, it wouldn't be the first a saint or two landed themselves in jail.

I'd wager to guess that of the photos we have up here, at least a good handful of them depict someone known for their great faith. Someone who lived out that faith in such a unique and notable way that it couldn't help but rub off on others who had the privilege of living alongside them. I'd also would wager that most of the saints known to us in this room were just as complicated, and contradictory, and compromised as the rest of us. They likely were dealt disappointments that shook the very foundations of their faith. And they likely fumbled and tripped down their path following Jesus - just like the rest of us.

And yet. Something was different about them. Wasn't it?

It's no great surprise to me that we meditate on the Beatitudes this saintly day. The risk here, though, is in thinking that the saints of God are those who naturally take on the blessings rather than the curses. That real saints don't grumble when they've lost or are hungry.

But in another translation of our Gospel reading today I hear another kind of sainthood calling out from it. This is from The Message:

You’re blessed when you’ve lost it all. God’s kingdom is there for the finding.

You’re blessed when you’re ravenously hungry. Then you’re ready for the Messianic meal.

You’re blessed when the tears flow freely. Joy comes with the morning.

Count yourself blessed every time someone cuts you down or throws you out, every time someone smears or blackens your name to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and that that person is uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—skip like a lamb, if you like!—for even though they don’t like it, I do . . . and all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company; my preachers and witnesses have always been treated like this.

To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the supple moves of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more payback. Live generously. Here is a simple rule of thumb for behavior:

Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the initiative and do it for them!"

What we do and don't do in this life matters. It matters very much. But what makes a saint is in the sharing in the vision of life as God intends it more so than being better at it than everyone else. Or maybe said another way: I think what makes a saint a saint, is that they get it. They get the reality that Jesus is talking about here. And they live in a way that welcomes that reality in. Imperfectly - maybe even impatiently - but in a way that others can't help but notice. And by that definition, I'd go as far as to say that we're lucky to have a few saints with us in this very room.

Amen.

Sermon for the 19th Sunday after Pentecost (10-19-25)

Sun, 19 Oct 2025 01:54:13 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Genesis 32:22-31 ; Psalm 121 ; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5 ; Luke 18:1-8

The association between faith and prayer seems pretty natural to many people. But even so, I actually find prayer to be one of the trickiest of the theological concepts we have to contend with. Sure, most people can tell you what prayer is: it's asking God for something, right? But as soon as we begin to see prayer as a cosmic ATM card (and, therefore, God as a cosmic ATM) it becomes much harder to keep the theological boat afloat - or - at least afloat with a loving God at the helm. And this is for one simple reason: sometimes, we don't get what we ask for. And in all truth, we often get things we don't ask for and would rather not have.

Jesus' parable in today's gospel reading is one of those lessons that makes sense as long as you don't look too hard at it. But, it's important to note that in Luke's account of the gospel, Jesus often spins these stories in ways that include characters and behaviors that say something about God - even if they don't represent God or God's general character.

So, to associate the judge's character with God's is to miss the point. Rather, Luke is trying to point toward the persistence of the widow in asking for what she needs. Emphasis on need vs . want here. It's not that - like the judge - God has no respect for anyone, but rather this parable is saying "if this persistent woman can get even a morally compromised judge to give her what she needs, how much more will God - who is good and loving - give to those who ask for what they need?"

And thus we identify the genesis of the Gospel according to the Rolling Stones : You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.

The eighteenth chapter of Luke's gospel, where we find today's parable, is about three quarters of the way through the story. By this time Jesus is on his fateful trip back to Jerusalem where he knows something important is about to happen. Where he knows something is about to change for his followers and for the whole world. More and more frequently Jesus has been speaking about "the end" and "the next age" and "coming of the kingdom". And understandably some people are starting to get a little anxious, because people still believe that the deliverance that their Messiah will bring will be carried out by a mighty military figure. One who will crush their oppressors and free them for good. But, Jesus knows the salvation of the world won't be through might. It will be through self-sacrificial love. The time to come will be challenging, and Jesus is trying to prepare his followers for that reality.

One commenter put it plainly: "prayer is part of living between the times". 1 And maybe it's because of where we find ourselves these days - what times we're in between - but that hit a bit differently for me. "Prayer is part of living between the times." In a world that's impulsive and thrashing around to find any sense of security and fulfillment, we as followers of Christ - of the Way as the earliest Christians called it - are called to be measured and mature in our living and being in this world. Called to dig down deeper to the loving roots of our faith even when those who also claim the name of Christ act with belligerence and distain for others. We're called to be made of better stuff than what a godless world offers. And more often than not prayer is our best way to access that better stuff. Because Lord knows, I always need some supernatural help to act like Jesus.

And all that is well and good, but we still have to contend with the fact that sometimes we don't get what we pray for. Sometimes the answer is "no". Remember that Jesus himself prayed to God on the night before his execution, "Father, if there is any other way to do this, please let me do it that way." And then the answer to him was clear, and it was no . But having molded his entire life around prayer, Jesus was able to say, "Okay. Your will be done."

If it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for us.

Persistence in prayer doesn't change God, it changes us. Like Jacob from our Old Testament reading who knew not why the divine figure would wrestle him, only that his persistence nonetheless results in blessing - new name. A new identity. And I would imagine a new outlook and perspective on his life and the will of God. Praying without ceasing looks a lot like offering up all of your life to God: the good parts, the bad parts, the needy parts, the confused parts, the faithless parts - all of it. A fragrant offering to your maker. It's messy, and that's okay.

Jesus didn't promise an easy road in following him. The opposite actually. But he did give us the promise of peace. His own peace he gives to us. And the longer I do this life and faith thing, the more I'm convinced that one of the only ways to tap into that peace is a consistent, serious life of prayer. Prayer can be a lot of things, my friends. We do it here as one body, we pray for each other in times of need, we walk in nature and thank God for this wonderful creation. But also, I would commend to you that prayer is sitting quietly and waiting for God to go first. A top-down conversation rather than a bottom up conversation. Why? Because you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.

However you pray, remember to pray always. And do not lose heart.

Amen

Andrew McGowan

Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (10-5-25)

Sun, 05 Oct 2025 02:49:02 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

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Readings : Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4 ; Psalm 37:1-10 ; 2 Timothy 1:1-14 ; Luke 17:5-10

I'll spend just a few minutes on the Gospel, because I know that the language is difficult. And, moreover, I know that Jesus' words are confusing. Next time it comes around we'll spend more time with it, but the other readings really speak to the times, so I want to focus there. But, I think it's irresponsible to completely side-step this Gospel. So, here we go, buckle up:

Yes, the word "slave" in this translation is among the best translations for the word. The only help we get within the translation sphere is that "worthless slave" might be better translated as "unprofitable slave," and in so commenting more on utility than overall worth. But, that doesn't really settle much does it? Slavery in this time and place was a bit different than Americans will imagine. It was more so an outcome of social class than race or ethnicity, and it might be akin a bit more to indentured servitude. Many enslaved would buy their freedom, eventually. It was as much a fact of life at that time as the reality that most in this country who work full-time (or more) at minimum wage still find it basically impossible to reach financial security. An unfortunate, unjust, unequal reality. But, a reality.

And Jesus - as high-minded as he is - is more than anything a realist. So, no Jesus doesn't want anyone to be enslaved. He speaks about freedom too much for that. And no, Jesus isn't condoning slavery writ-large here. He's simply using an illustration that he knows will work for the apostles ;mainly that we don't get a cookie for doing what we ought to do. God doesn't owe us anything. In fact, the gift of grace is so big, so life-changing, so beyond a transaction that it will completely alter our view of gift-and-reward altogether.

Okay? Okay! Now everyone do whatever you need to do to reset your brain because we're taking a big ole U-turn to our first lesson.

O Lord, how long shall I cry for help,
and you will not listen?

Destruction and violence are before me;
strife and contention arise.

So the law becomes slack
and justice never prevails.

The wicked surround the righteous--
therefore judgment comes forth perverted.

Wait a second when was this written?! The prophet Habakkuk pens in this short book of poetry a prayer to God. Habakkuk lived in the final years of Israel's southern kingdom and began to look around and say: Wow, something is very, very wrong here. This book ends up as a kind of back-and-forth between Habakkuk and God, and Habakkuk asks the age-old question: God, if you're so good, why is all this so bad ? (So if that question has been rolling around your head lately, you're in good company.) Why is this so bad, God? Why don't you do something about this? I can't see how it can get any worse.

Well, it does get worse. Much worse. In a short time the Babylonian Empire - which is MUCH worse - will soon conquer Israel's southern kingdom and send the people into exile for quite a long time. And knowing that the Babylonians have all the same social ills (but worse), Habakkuk points this out to God. Why would God give them into the hands of someone even farther from God's justice than themselves ? Why did God do any of this?

And God's reply:

I didn't do this. You did. And actually, I'm going to spell out specific reasons all this is happening:

1) There are wildly unjust economic practices going on here. The rich have too much, the poor have too little.

2) The slavery thing has got to go.

3) Your leaders are morally compromised, and they are using their position to enrich themselves rather than serve the people in my honor.

4) You are dealing with a big idolatry problem here - worshipping pretty much anything and everything but me.

So, yeah. I didn't do this. You did. And here's one more, the longer the nations of the world continue to behave in this way the longer this cycle of destruction and despair will continue. Not because I want it to, but because you want it to. This never-ending cycle of power-grabbing, selfish, over consuming, dignity-draining suffering isn't actually necessary. But because someone always has to be on top, the revenge and insecurity of the nations will continue this cycle until it stops.

(Or at least that's how I imagine God talking to me about it.)

Again, when was this written? It is easy and understandable to look at what's going on in the world today and ask, "why"? Actually, if you aren't asking that I'm not sure you're paying attention. But, it's never been a sin to be curious. It's just that sometimes we ask questions we don't want the answers to.

C.S. Lewis quoted Augustine of Hippo once and said “God wants to give us something but cannot, because our hands are full. There’s nowhere for God to put it." God isn't letting all this happen - we are - as a country and society. We are. And God didn't make this happen, we did. But God never leaves us totally to our devices - even when we're sitting in our own mess.

God says to Habakkuk,

Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it. For there is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come , it will not delay. Look at the proud! Their spirit is not right in them, but the righteous live by their faith.

These are wild times. It feels like the world is ending, and maybe it is. Maybe that's not so bad. Wouldn't it be amazing if we lived to see the cycle broken? It'll be painful and messy for this nation especially, because - news flash - we are Babylon. But in all this God promises never to truly forsake us. God didn't become one of us in Christ Jesus just to give up on us.

So, stand at your watch post and look for the thing God will do. Live by faith. Do the next right thing. And take heart, it will surely come.

Amen

Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (9-28-25)

Sun, 28 Sep 2025 22:33:44 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Amos 6:1a,4-7 ; Psalm 146 ; 1 Timothy 6:6-19 ; Luke 16:19-31

How much is enough? Do you have a number in mind? Or maybe a vision of a certain lifestyle? Or, is that an irrelevant question - is there no such thing as enough?

How much is enough?

You may have heard it said that Jesus talked about the subject of money more than anything else. And while this actually untrue, it is curious how Jesus seems laser focused on issues of wealth and poverty. And it is notable that he uses the concept of money as an illustration in nearly a third of his parables.

Regardless of if - or whether - Jesus is trying to say anything about money itself, it's clear he knows that money is real. And that it has a real influence on us, and more importantly on our hearts... and maybe our souls.

"There is great gain in godliness combined with contentment" says today's letter to Timothy, "for we brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it". SO THAT we can take nothing out of it. Who knew? Who knew the whole "you can't take it with you" line comes straight from the Bible!

So, if money is such a risk, and we're not intended to take it with us - what's the point of it? What is money really for in a life walking alongside Jesus - a poor, simple woodworker, who was often homeless and who relied on the kindness of others to survive?

I recently came across an essay by someone named Evy McDonald [1] . Evy is the co-founder of an organization that helps people shift to low-consumption lifestyles. She believes it's a critical part of Christian living - living simply and consuming responsively - but her journey toward that belief was a long and harrowing one.

You see, Evy wanted to become the youngest hospital administrator in the history of the field - quite a specific goal, if you ask me. And she studied, and clawed, and climbed, and networked, and over-worked to find herself right on track to achieving that very goal. She was making the money she'd wanted to make, driving the cars she'd wanted to drive, and self-admittedly regularly buying a pair of shoes when she felt a little down. She had a lot of shoes. Her potential - endless. Her ascent to wealthy living - assured. Her life and livelihood - well under her control.

That is until one fateful day in 1980. The roles had been reversed and now she was lying on the hospital bed. A doctor walked in and coolly delivered the blow; that she had about a year to live, and that no treatment existed for her condition. Shortly after, her boss called and asked if she would return to work soon - having been away for these tests. When Evy said she was doubtful she'd return soon they let her go, right then and there. Later that day, Evy's housemate called and asked if she carried homeowners insurance, because their place had been burgled and most of her valuable possessions stolen.

Evy's writes: "In the course of twelve hours I had lost almost everything I identified with. Gone was the dream...Gone were the material possessions...Gone was the sense of success...Gone were my 'idols'." And after that day a passage from Proverbs began to occupy Evy's mind:

Give me neither riches nor poverty,
let me be fed with the food that is needful for me.
Lest I be full and deny you and say, Who is the Lord?
Lest I be poor and steal and profane the name of my God . (Prov 30:8-9)

How much is enough, the Spirit asked Evy. And the Spirit continues to ask us today.

Isn't it strange how we often see that while the poor rarely have enough for themselves, they seem to have enough to give? I think this might have something to do with Jesus' preference for the poor over the rich. It's not simply a game of pity, but an acknowledgement of a right relationship to money. Even if they would be better off with a little more of it.

Jesus does not want us to be poor. He never wished that upon anyone. But at the same time, he warned us about the dangers of wealth - the dangers of the worship of Mammon overshadowing an inescapable dependence on God's provision. The danger of finding identity in wealth or consumption or status or security, instead of aligning our identity with the one who brought us into this world with nothing and who will gladly welcome us home with nothing other than a heart of faith and gratitude.

But we still haven't answered the question: what's the point of money ? What am I to do with the wealth I am given by God, material or otherwise? Again, Timothy's letter gives us a clue:

As for those who in the present age are rich, command them not to be haughty, or to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but rather on God who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. They are to do good, to be rich in good works, generous, and ready to share, thus storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life that really is life.

The treasure of a good foundation for the future ... My oh my have we strayed far from that command. Instead, today wealth is used mainly to produce more wealth - much of which is made by undeniably diabolical means. By the selling of bombs to carry out genocide in Gaza and numerous conflicts elsewhere. By the poisoning of entire communities who are poor and overwhelmingly communities of color in order to produce goods that we enjoy at great cost to our planet and our fellow creatures. By the squeezing of the good Earth's resources - a undeniable gift from God - with absolutely no concern for the future - let alone a good foundation for it. By the profit wrought from guns increasingly used to spread vengeance, and terror, and hate, and hopelessness - which ironically enough are the same death-dealing expressions of fear that keep this whole machine running. The machine which insists that there's no such thing as enough - and damn the costs.

But we worship a God of the living, not the dead. We follow a savior who speaks The Good News of freedom and healing, not the lies of power and ill-gotten advantage. And as long as we look to that God, there is hope.

How much is enough? It starts right there. And it is a decision that you and only you can make with God, and only God. Oh, and Evy McDonald? Her mystery illness was Lou Gehrig's disease (or ALS) which only has a 10% survival rate after 10 years. Well, 45 years later she's still alive. In fact, she's said to be the first person to completely recover from ALS, which until then was thought to be impossible.

Given that, I'll leave you with a few more words from her:

"In defining how much was enough for me, I found time for serving, reading, watching sunsets, singing, going for a walk with friends, enjoying a concert, and listening in silent prayer. In short, a life of immeasurable wealth."

Amen.

[1] All references to Evy McDonald's story and quotations of her words were taken from her essay, "Spending Money as if Life Really Mattered" found in Simpler Living, Compassionate Life, ed. Michael Schut (2002).

Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (9-14-25)

Sun, 14 Sep 2025 03:18:52 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Readings : Exodus 32:7-14; Psalm 51:1-11; 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10

Tell me, where is the road I can call my own,

That I left, that I lost… So long ago?

All these years I have wandered,

Oh when will I know there's a way,

There's a road… That will lead me home?

After wind, after rain, When the dark is done,

As I wake from a dream In the gold of day,

Through the air there's a calling..From far away,

There's a voice I can hear… That will lead me home.

This popular choral work by composer Stephen Paulus speaks of a desire to return home. To be at home -wherever or whatever that may be for each of us. I first sang these words in my college choir, and it was a younger me most definitely seeking to find a home. To come home to that place that we all long for in some way. Where we feel most ourselves. Where our needs are best met. For some of us, that place may not be the physical space where we were raised - or even the one in which we reside now. But it seems we all yearn for the place that makes us feel most at home. And even if we aren’t sure of what that is – or if for any number of reasons can’t be there - we still long for it.

But homes can get dirty, we can track things in that don't necessarily belong there. And the ideal homecoming would include an opportunity to leave a few items at the door. “Repentance” is a word we see a whole lot in our biblical text. But strangely enough, since the beginning of the Christian church, there’s been a translation issue happening around the concept of repentance. Metanoia is one of those Greek words that doesn’t quite translate neatly into English. It's been translated as the guilt- and shame-laden term repentance now for ages. Even the early Church writers knew that it didn’t really convey the heart of what metanoia represents.

Changing one’s mind. A transformational change of heart. A spiritual conversion. These are better translations of the Greek metanoia . But we can see why they wouldn’t read quite the same way when situated back in text. We would instead hear Jesus say something like: "Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who changes their mind than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no spiritual conversion." Or we would hear: “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who has a transformational change of heart.” This comes across quite differently, doesn’t it?

In both of Jesus' parables today, something is lost - but then it's found. And while there’s a whole other sermon to preach about us as the lost sheep or lost coin - and how we've gotten to lost in the first place - today something shone through that lesson.

The joy. The joy in the return of that which was lost to where it belongs. The homecoming of the sheep and the coin. "Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep!” we hear the shepherd proclaim to friends and neighbors! “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin!” the woman cries out to anyone who will listen!

Jesus tells us that there is joy in heaven when we change our mind. When we have a change in heart. Not simply when we feel really crummy about something we’ve done. It would seem to me God doesn’t necessarily need an offering of shame and guilt for us to come home. And while these feelings can absolutely accompany real contrition, I'm beginning to believe God would rather us focus our energy on the hard work of continual, life-long spiritual conversion. To be transformed by the Good News. To let go of patterns and cycles that keep us distant from God and from one another.

But along with that work there is joy to be found there my, friends. And with it a reminder that changing our minds is not only a holy thing; it is a fundamental aspect of our salvation, it would seem. So, what about our common understanding of repentance actually keeps us from returning to God’s embrace: to be found, to be fed, and loved into a fuller, more mature faith? Do we stop short of true repentance - real metanoia - because we think we need to be good or clean enough to come home?

Even if that’s true – even if that’s where we’re stuck today - what I see Jesus offering here is a promise. A promise of a life imbued with the grace of God; with the unconditional love of the Spirit; with a persistent invitation to come home, again, and again, and again. A promise that such a life can transcend our desire see faithfulness as being “good enough”, and will instead give us a glimpse of something much bigger. A promise of new and unending life, born out of faith and made holy by true transformation of heart and mind.

But an honest look at all of this leaves one thing unaccounted for, doesn't it? The problem of sin. I’m a believer that sin always brings along its own punishment. The exhaustion of greed, the bitter, hollow taste of objectification when we lust, the isolation and loneliness of pride, the fracturing of our own self when we’re dishonest. God's gift of our perfect freedom comes with the option to opt into a life filled with emptiness. It is always our choice. But the scandal of the Gospel that we profess is that is that metanoia - true transformation - is also always available and abundantly so.

Yes, the Good News is that the incarnate God - like the woman crawling around, looking for her coin - that same God roots around in the dust and dirt endlessly to find us. To bring us home.

Back in college - that song I opened with - when we finally sang it at our big concert I couldn’t sing the last verse. I was crying, because I heard Jesus singing the last verse:

Rise up, follow me, Come away, is the call,

With the love in your heart As the only song;

There is no such beauty As where you belong;

Rise up, follow me, I will lead you home.

Amen.

Sermon for the Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (9-7-25)

Sun, 07 Sep 2025 23:32:28 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Deuteronomy 30:15-20 ; Psalm 1 ; Philemon 1-21 ; Luke 14:25-33

You know that thing that happens? That thing when you're in public and you see two people talking, but you can't quite make out what they are saying? But it seems interesting or important enough that - you know - you kind of fill in the gaps? You craft the conversation and spin a narrative (generally a totally ridiculous one if it's me) taking on the role of narrator and letting these poor, unassuming people act out your wild machinations. (This is especially fun when you suspect two people are on a first date, 'cause come on, you can almost always tell.)

And then there are the times that you actually overhear a conversation that kind of puts your antenna up. You hear enough to either be intrigued, or concerned, or even perhaps a little judgmental. But you know you don't have all the info. Either way, what you hear means something to you. Even if you're not the one being spoken to.

This phenomenon is often what's happening in our scriptures. Because what we hear in scripture is indeed for our hearing, but it's also important to remember that we - specifically we the people in this room with our own social contexts, and understanding - we are not necessarily part of the conversations themselves.

Let's take Moses' very famous last words to the Israelites as one example this morning. "See, I have set before you today life and prosperity, death and adversity... I call heaven and earth to witness against you today that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses," Moses warns.

Without knowing some of the backstory here, and in the absence of any real experience with Moses and his merry band of Israelites Moses sounds kind of like a jerk, yeah? Seemingly he's setting up a trap for these people, and he's not even being subtle about it. Why would Moses who has been leading these people for 40 years, wandering through the desert set them up for such easy failure - and especially at this last hour of that journey?

What we in this room don't necessarily hold in our minds when hearing this bit of tough love is the long, loooonngggg saga of the Israelites. Who God has delivered from slavery by God's own hand. Who have, in fact, struggled to choose life at several turns. Who have in many cases been given commands that will lead to their safety and prosperity, only to have them think as though they know better. And many have in fact died by this point because of it. We don't necessarily work from the same lived story as this group.

I for one can absolutely imagine giving a very similar pep talk as Moses at this particular juncture - sharp and direct as it might be. But see, even that kind of thinking isn't quite squeezing out the best meaning from this story. And similarly, placing ourselves as one of those Israelites - and perhaps being tempted to become offended on their behalf at the seeming callousness of both Moses and God - will be a distraction from hearing what this text is really trying to say.

It does seem harsh, and it doesn't quite match up with my image of God. But what it does say - loud and clear - is that we always have a choice. God does not drag us into communion. And at the same time, we've been given clear warnings of what might very well happen when we decided to slap away God's hand and go it alone. Make our own way. Be our own God. There is death at the other end of that. And so, we have a choice. Blessings or curses. Life...or death.

Do I think Moses is telling "us" that he has put a precarious path before "us" specifically? No. It's not our story. But do I hear the truth about our immutable gift of choice and free will in this story; loud and clear. All scripture is for our hearing, but not every story is our story.

What can you hear beyond the text on the page? Knowing that we aren't the actual characters in these stories, what truth is the Spirit pointing out to us even amid the shock or potential offense at the conversations we're allowed to overhear? You can maybe fill in a few of the narrative details, but try not to get carried away.

And if you are indeed gifted new insight, or fresh understanding, or even just an ability to see through the fog of the text - give thanks! Because that is a gift - scripture always is. A gift from the Spirit, for our hearing.

Amen.

Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (8-31-25)

Sun, 31 Aug 2025 00:10:25 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Sirach 10:12-18 ; Psalm 112 ; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 ; Luke 14:1, 7-14

I changed my major four times in undergrad. I was a bit at sea you might say, because as a first-generation college student I had interests and ambitions - but I didn't have a ton of clear direction, at least vocationally. What I did have, however, was a persistent need to see proof of God in the world around me. Outside of the church. In the everyday. To see evidence of the Divine Architect even if that evidence was discovered by people who weren't necessarily looking for it in the same way.

Music education was first, but it didn't quite give me the theoretical depth I now know I needed. Then it was biology, because what better position in which to witness miracles than as a physician. (Chemistry really did that one in for me.) Then it was French, honestly because I was running out of ideas. And then, I took sociology 101...

Oh My God ... literally! How did I now know about this? There's a whole body of research and study circling around so many of the same questions we talk about in church?! Like why do people act the way they do. Why groups of people do they things they do. And in general, why the human race so weird.

I got to meet many brilliant thinkers. People who began to put words to experiences a lot of us can describe but not easily name. Ultimately, all of this is a very protracted way to introduce you to Émile Durkheim and the concept of anomie .

At the end of the 19th century, French sociologist Émile Durkheim popularized this term - anomie - as he considered how the modern world was shaping the modern mind ; especially how the industrial revolution was tempting humans into lives of increasing individualism, egoism, and normlessness (which is a common translation of anomie - normlessness).

He predicted that with the collapse of shared moral and ethical centers of life - especially traditional concepts of religion - we as humans would struggle more and more to make meaning of this life. Durkheim feared that the end of this "anomic" road was a bleak one for humanity. That anomie would push us further and further into self-destructive despair, meaninglessness, and doom. And all in the name of progress and modernization.

And you know, I'm really beginning to think that he was on to something. All you really have to do is look around. The data is pretty easy to collect. We've never had more : more wealth, more convenience, more access, more education, more social safety nets, more global power, etc... The list goes on and on. We've never had more than we have today as a human species. And yet, I'd argue that while we may have gotten more in this modern world, we've become a fair bit less human than we once were; or, at least less human than we can be.

Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. And Durkheim was right.

"The beginning of human pride is to forsake the Lord; the heart has withdrawn from its Maker, Sirach reminds us this morning. And oh how we desperately need a reminder.

For the beginning of pride is sin,
and the one who clings to it pours out abominations.

Pride was not created for human beings,
or violent anger for those born of women.

For all who exalt themselves will be humbled,

and those who humble themselves will be exalted.

I love sociology because, generally speaking, when someone comes up with a seemingly novel social concept - even one like anomie - there's a fair chance that we've actually heard about it before. Which to me is a really fun way to get a glimpse at some evidence of the divine working in the world around us.

But at the same time it's similar to a child who hears the same advice you give them as a parent, but only this time it's heard from their favorite auntie and suddenly she's not a total idiot. Suddenly she's the best! She get's it!

If I were God, I would be very irritated by this. Because, of course, the modern mind can't universally apply something we may have stumbled across in church . And worse, the modern mind really tends to resist the idea that we might not, in fact, be our own God.

But we are creatures - not gods - created lovingly by a loving God. How exactly we are created? Couldn't tell you. But we are given a lot of data straight from that same creator regarding the best way to do this "life" thing. Sirach reminds us of that this morning. "The beginning of human pride is to forsake the Lord; the heart has withdrawn from its Maker." Or maybe said a bit more directly: become your own God if you like, but do it at your own risk. Because that's not how this was all designed to work

What's totally fascinating to me about Durkheim's work was that he was really quite ambivalent about the existence of God. But he saw compelling evidence - sociological evidence - of the effect that even the idea of the divine had on overall human flourishing and wellness. Or rather, the effect of its absence.

As capable, and complex, and brilliant as we've become as a species we're still toddlers compared to our maker. And tiny compared to the vastness of this universe. Training wheels are still a good idea. And not least a reminder that being God sounds like a really hard job. I for one am increasingly grateful that I don't need to be the God of my own life. I tend to really screw things up when I try to be.

Instead, I find true peace and true meaning when I draw near to the heart of my Maker. And through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ Jesus, you are endlessly invited to do the same.

Amen.

Sermon for the Tenth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (8-17-25)

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 00:40:05 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Jeremiah 23:23-29 ; Psalm 82 ; Hebrews 11:29-12:2 ; Luke 12:49-56

Well, for those of you who love punchy Jesus, today's your lucky day. And for those of you who don't, buckle up! Because today's gospel passage is doozie.

Knowing how important family is to many - and of the upmost importance to some - I won't try to soften these very challenging words of Jesus. Because to do so would be to undo the very point Our Savior is trying to make, I think. But what I will do is get right out in front of the glaring concern: No. Jesus is not anti-family. Jesus performed miracles to make families whole again. And even from the cross he made a family of his mother Mary and his disciple and friend John: "Here is your son, here is your mother."

Yes, once again we receive an invitation to be responsible bible scholars. To consider the broader context of this passage before running off with an interpretation fueled by only our offense, or perhaps even by our disgust at these sharp words.

So, what if I told you that the key to engaging with this passage is to consider it not so much through the lens of family, but through the lens of fire.

"I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!"Jesus says.

While we modern listeners primarily think of fire as a force of destruction, it's important to remember that fire can also be refining, and cleansing, and it can be transformative; images that would have likely come to mind easily for first-century listeners. Fire burning off dross to refine a precious metal, like gold being subjected to tremendous heat - precious as it is - to make it even more precious. Fire burning fields of straw after the wheat harvest in order to make way for new growth and new life in the coming season.

Fire to burn away hypocrisy and indifference, the fog of selfishness and deceit, or the weeds of abuse and oppression that keep God's people from thriving. And perhaps even fire to illuminate and refine our idols back into what they were originally meant for: money, sex, power, pleasure, reputation. And perhaps things so close to home as family.

Families are a great gift. They are critical for our flourishing whether they be born or chosen. But as likely every one of us in this room can attest, families can also be complicated. For some, families are not the site of flourishing we hope for. And for some yet, families can be the site of mistreatment - if not flat out abuse.

Our Creator ordained the human family to be a fertile source of nurturing, and growth, and love, and protection - but only so far as God created anything else for our benefit. And all to the same ultimate end: to best bolster us for the worship, service, and love of that same God.

But what happens when families are no longer loving or nurturing? What is the faithful thing to do when our families become cages instead of gardens? Sites of harm instead of places of refuge?

"What has straw in common with wheat? says the Lord. Is not my word like fire, says the Lord, and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces?" Jeremiah in his iconic way does not flinch from the difficult truth. That sometimes the things that are meant to feed us are no longer able to serve that purpose. Sometimes the earthly things that are supposed to be a firm foundation falter, and like rocks are broken.

"Families are not ultimate ends in themselves, even though they are inherently valuable and worth protecting. Family loyalty is real and important, but cannot outweigh God’s call," one commentator writes. And what is God's call for us? What is it that is so important that it is worth threatening one of the cornerstones of our social existence?

Truth.

In all things we are called to be agents of truth. And sometimes, truth burns.

I know for a fact that sitting in this very room are beloved children of God who for many complex and painful reasons have had to either make or accept some level of distance from family. In the name of truth. Their truth.

The truth that they have inherent dignity and worth, and so will no longer be mistreated or abused. The truth that God in no uncertain terms tells us that we are each others' keepers, and so political realities reveal deep, unreconcilable ethical differences. And perhaps even the truth that God's call through the Gospel of Jesus Christ does demand everything from us. Everything. Including handing over our idols even when that idol might be a family that pictures itself as of the ultimate importance.

I know that this searing reality of distance and brokenness is present here for many. And please know that I am one of them, too. I get it. And it burns, doesn't it? Truth has a funny way of doing that. But on the other side of the refining process, please know that something more precious awaits. It may be reunion and reconciliation. Or it may be a new-found sense of family straight from the bosom of the Almighty and mediated by people like you. A new, chosen family of faith. But more than anything know that Jesus sees it. And Jesus gets it because Jesus himself lived in this truth. That we are made for God, and for God alone.

So, if you are one of us who has made the impossible choice to lean into distance in order to be closer to truth, please know that Jesus blesses that. And he is proud of you. And he will continue to give you what you need to live into that truth.

Jesus is not anti-family. Not even a little bit. But Jesus is pro-truth at any cost. He put his life on the line for it. And the life he still lives - in that same truth - is yours for the taking.

Amen.

Sermon for the Sixth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (7-20-25)

Sun, 20 Jul 2025 01:01:48 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

R eadings : Genesis 18:1-10a ; Psalm 15 ; Colossians 1:15-28 ; Luke 10:38-42

Picture it: two close friends are due to come over for dinner later in the day. And so naturally you want to tidy up the house a little bit. To be a gracious and hospitable host, you know? So the bathrooms are cleaned, the floors swept, oh and while we're at it might as well dust that shelf that never quite gets much attention. And you know what, those pillow cases on the throw pillows are looking dingy too, and the stove - you know the one that's just about to get used and dirtied - it's begging for a good scrub. I guess the oven too while I'm at it. In fact, let's just make it seem as though no one actually lives in this house. That will be the best way to prepare for these guests. That is some real hospitality!

Anyone else? Or is that just me? (If you're not like this please give my husband Charlie some support. Just so he knows he's not alone when he witnesses this most neurotic behavior of mine time and time again.)

Today's gospel story is generally a familiar one even though it only shows up in Luke's account. Maybe it's because it's short and simple - at least on the surface. And maybe it's because it's a wildly familiar vignette of human experience. Two sisters are equally raptured by this inspiring, itinerant teacher named Jesus. They are both looking to aid this movement, to be part of the big thing that Jesus is doing in their world. And like the rest of us, they initially click into their most natural, most innate postures when he walks in the door.

As the curious one, Mary plops right down trying to drink in every word Jesus says. Tuning out the scuttle and commotion around her. And who can blame her? I love it when Jesus gives me a break from the reality right in front of my face. When he offers a perspective that allows me to breathe a little bit - to see God's goodness in an otherwise scary and broken world. It can be such a relief. And even a bit intoxicating.

And Martha our host is doing what good hosts do. She's ensuring that her guests will want for nothing. One step ahead, doing that host thing where every need is considered before the guests even know they need it. It's magical, this kind of work. It makes you feel special as a guest, and it's more than anything a labor of love.

And so in viewing this difference in posture - these seemingly conflicting approaches to discipleship - we, along with Martha, do that very human thing. We ask for the right answer. We look for the "better part". Because us either/or, black or white thinkers there can only be one right way. Right?

Well if this is where your mind first went, please know you're in good company. Even St. Augustine of Hippo in the fifth century noted this clear either/or problem within the story:

"Martha," he writes "was absorbed in the matter of how to feed the Lord; Mary was absorbed in the matter of how to be fed by the Lord. Martha was preparing a banquet for the Lord, Mary was already reveling in the banquet of the Lord." ( Sermon 104.1) And even in how he presents the situation we get a sense that Augustine, along with many, have decided which was "the better part," to use Jesus' words. Learning over doing. Listening over serving. Devotion over hospitality. Mary over Martha.

But when we really drill into it this doesn't seem quite right, does it? After all, we hear Jesus speak often and passionately about service to others. About radical hospitality. He himself dons a servants towel and washes his own disciples feet - a seeming reversal of parts of today's very story, in fact. So, it does seem strange for Jesus to suddenly become enamored by Mary's devotion and kind of dismiss Martha's hospitality. Or, are we sure that's what he's doing here?

"Martha....Martha," we can hear the compassion in his tone straight from the page. "Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, there is need of only one thing," Jesus assures her.

One of my favorite things about Jesus is that he always seems to know our "one thing". Which is, indeed, a miracle seeing as each of us have a different one thing at different times. For me, I'm right there with Martha these days. Needing Jesus to tear me away from all my doing and invite me to sit at his feet for a while. But in any other season I could easily need the opposite - to get out of my head and into my world. Needing the transforming presence of Christ to shape my faith into service and action.

I find it interesting that this Bible translation among many others seems to have made up Jesus' mind for him in his reply to Martha that "Mary has chosen the better part". Interesting because a more accurate translation here would simply be "Mary has chosen a good part". There is no rank order. What might have been good for Mary could be different for Martha. We all show up to host Jesus with different needs at different times.

What's your need these days? Do we work really hard? Or do we sit at Jesus' feet?

Yes.

Search your hearts, beloved. Find the better part for you . It is a unique conversation between you and your Savior. Don't be too concerned with everyone else - they're having their own conversation and hopefully finding their own better part. And in all things, marvel that the God of the universe has come here. To be a gracious and understanding guest in to you.

Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (7-13-25)

Sun, 13 Jul 2025 01:32:05 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Deuteronomy 30:9-14 ; Psalm 25:1-9 ; Colossians 1:1-14 ; Luke 10:25-37

Audience participation first thing this morning! Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard the term “good Samaritan”. Now, raise your hand if you’ve heard that a Good Samaritan is, generally speaking, someone who goes out of their way to help someone else in need.

Great! That’s not what I’m preaching about today, so I’m glad to know most of you have heard that helping people in need is a good thing to do. Go and do likewise.

We’re going somewhere else this morning. Let’s start by recapping the beginning of today’s Gospel from Luke:

So this story seems fairly straightforward by this point, yes? We have someone posing what seems to be a reasonable clarifying question to Jesus: Who is my neighbor? And they expect to receive an answer from the renowned teacher. But instead of giving the lawyer an answer , Jesus launches into something that sounds like the set-up of a really corny joke: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho...” Perhaps a first-century, Palestinian version of “A man walks into a bar...” kind of thing.

No, instead of an answer Jesus offers a story . Instead of giving a clear directive, Jesus gives a parable .

There’s no denying that Jesus had a soft spot for parables. In fact, he used them so often that of the 24 or so parables that we see scattered among Matthew, Mark, and Luke eight of those same stories are repeated at least in two - if not all three - of those Gospels. And in our Bible when things are important they’re repeated.

So, what was so important about this insistence on storytelling over answering? If Jesus really wanted to tell us some Good News, wouldn’t it have been better to just get to the point?

Over the past few years my theological imagination has been piqued by New Testament scholar Dr Amy-Jill Levine. As a Jewish historian her writing consistently paints a vivid portrait of Jesus, his followers, and his adversaries in an authentic, first-century Jewish context. Which is great because - historically speaking -Jesus was a first-century Jew! She argues that when parables are heard through the ears of their original intended audience, these quirky stories should seldom make us feel content and comfortable.

Quoting a talk of hers she suggests that: “Parables are a genre well-known to Jews at the time. There’s an old line about religion that “ religion was designed to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable .” And people back then knew that if someone told a parable, those stories were not banal statements of the obvious, and they were not children’s stories – although children can understand them. They were designed to do a bit of heart surgery. To do some personal excavation. They tell us what we already know, but simply don’t want to acknowledge. So when we hear a parable and think “isn’t that nice, or isn’t that sweet” we’re probably not listening very well, because parables are actually designed to indict.”

But surely in this line of thinking the parable of the Good Samaritan was designed to indict - to call to question - the original first-century hearers, right? Not us as twenty-first-century hearers... right? Lucky for us Jesus’ teaching tale still packs a punch for us all these years later. But if we already know that it’s the right thing – even an expectation of Christian ethics – to help those who need help, what’s the indictment here? Why is this parable worth digging into in any meaningful way? What's left to learn? What are we missing?

What we’re missing is some context about what makes the Samaritan a Good Samaritan. During the time of Jesus, Jews and Samaritans were categorically not fond of each other, to put it lightly. To Jesus’ Jewish hearers, the term Good Samaritan would have sounded like a potential oxymoron – think good murderer, or good fill in the blank with some group with an overwhelming negative stereotype.

Samaritans and Jews lived in relatively close quarters, generally avoided traveling through each other’s territory, and were embroiled in seemingly unquenchable hostility. You can likely easily think of two groups of people today – either here or abroad – that fit these characteristics. But the history at the heart of the lasting animosity between these two groups is a critical detail that is often overlooked by current-day hearers of this parable.

If we look back to Old Testament accounts (specifically around Second Kings) we see that the Jews and the Samaritans used to be - wait for it - the same group of people. Dun dun dunnn! The plot thickens! And what caused the split of this one religious/ethic group into two? Well, that would be a disagreement on how to carry out specific tenants of their faith: 1) specifically who could marry whom and 2) how and where worship should happen. They couldn’t see eye to eye on these and other issues, and so they split. Sound familiar?

So here is now Jesus hundreds of years later telling a story to Jewish listeners about a man – who we can reasonably assume was Jewish – being attacked on the road. We can make this assumption because Luke’s text says “a man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho”. And no matter what direction you’re traveling, you always go up to Jerusalem to participate in the temple ritual. And when you leave you go down from Jerusalem. That just how it worked.

This man is attacked, robbed, and left for dead on the road. Both a priest and a Levite (also a priestly type) pass right by this man who is in terrible need. Now, if this man is in fact a Jew these two people would be his people. But still he's left for dead. The a Samaritan stops. This Samaritan not only helps immediately, but he also ensures that the injured man is cared for in the long term by dropping him at an inn and telling the innkeeper “take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend”.

When the lawyer, who is the main recipient of this parable, is asked by Jesus, “which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” the lawyer can’t even bring himself to say the word Samaritan . He only replies, “ the one who showed him mercy”. Such longstanding animosity toward another group that he can barely conceive of - let alone voice the idea of - a Jew needing and receiving mercy from a Samaritan. Sound familiar?

If parables are designed to indict us as Dr. Levine would have us believe, what then is the charge to us? If we place ourselves in the roles of each of the characters in the story, which one feels like the most uncomfortable fit? If we become the priest or Levite, passing by the man in need in spite of knowing better – that’s an easy lesson. We already know that. If we become the Samaritan, going out of our way to help someone in need – even someone who is different than us, or even from a group with which we don’t typically associate – that’s a bit closer. But it's still not much of an indictment.

But what about the man lying on the road? What might it mean to see humanity, mercy, help, and mutuality in someone like the Samaritan? Someone who might be labeled on the surface as “an enemy” but who has more in common with us than we’d like to admit. What is the parable, and more broadly, the Gospel drawing us out to admit?

Perhaps that seeing each other’s humanity before digging into the specifics is part-and-parcel to living like Jesus? Perhaps that being open to the mercy of those who we’ve been taught to believe want only to do us harm might break open some space between us for healing?

My favorite thing about parables is that we get to decide what it means - day in and day out - as life shifts around. As the world continues to open up and we continue to bump into each other, Jesus left us with teachings that could stand up to high-mileage use. But what is clear from the parable of the Good Samaritan no matter how you slice it, is that love of God, love of neighbor, and radical mercy are integral to hearing, living, and proclaiming the Good News.

Jesus showed these with his life. Go and do likewise.

Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday After Pentecost, Year C (6-29-25)

Sun, 29 Jun 2025 02:46:00 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : 1 Kings 19:15-16,19-21 ; Psalm 16 ; Galatians 5:1,13-25 ; Luke 9:51-62

Friends there is so much we could consider from these reading this morning. Too much really for one homily. We could very comfortably look to Elisha in the Old Testament and think about what it means for God to have other plans for us. Consider what it means to - quite literally - take on the mantel of our each of our God-given vocations regardless of whether it aligns with our own grand plans for our lives.

Or we could dissect the somewhat sharp words Jesus has for those who claim to want to follow him right away, but just after they get their affairs in order. After all, they - and we - know that this Christ-like life will be quite costly in some ways. The ends do justify the means, of course, but if we can make it just a little more comfortable, well....

But then I remembered some sage preaching wisdom I once received: the passage that scares you most? The one you know will be the most risky? Well, that's generally where the Spirit wants you to go. So - love him or hate him - we turn to Paul today who right on time ahead of the 4th of July holiday reminds us that Freedom Isn't Free.

Now just to stave off any unnecessary anxiety: I am neither 1) informed enough nor 2) focused enough to make any kind of responsible - or more importantly - helpful comment on our current state of geo-politics. They have forever been complex and nuanced, if not menacing and costly to lives and livelihoods ever since geo-politics came into existence. There are no easy decisions to be made at this juncture for better - or what feels increasingly like - for worse.

Regardless, Paul compels us to consider the nature of true freedom today in a way that moves into our broader shared reality. But, like most good wisdom it's best to start where we are. From our own experience. So now I'm going to go through Paul's sins of the flesh, and if that's one of yours just be bold and raise your hand. Okay here we go: Fornication! (Kidding, kidding. But just reminder that we do practice the sacrament of confession in the Episcopal church. Just give me a call.)

But take look at this list: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing. Paul always seems to be really down on the body, and on what many would consider pleasure . Or said another way: the sexy stuff tends to be at the top of Paul's naughty list. So, it's easy to miss the broader point here.

Out of these 15 "stumbling blocks", to my read only five of them fit into that traditional - yet unoriginal - hyper-focused "sins of the flesh" category. The other two thirds, things like enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy.... those if I'm not mistaken seem to have been taken up as popular hobbies these days. And sometimes to great fanfare.

What all of these sins - these stumbling blocks on our journey toward union with God and with one another - have in common is that in some way they all feel good . At least for a moment. And they feel good at the expense of someone else: of someone else's humanity, dignity, or their own freedom. They often are an easy choice for some flesh - a body - that has lost some connection with its soul. And it only takes a split second to get there.

"But what about my freedom?! Aren't I free to do what I want, think what I want, say what I want, worship what I want. Tear down what I want? Build up what I want?" Technically, yes. We are free to do those things - at least in one understanding of freedom. The kind that centers this body, this individual experience, this desire.

But this kind of freedom fails to consider this broader body, this shared experience, these larger dreams and desires. Doing whatever you want isn't the kind of freedom Paul is talking about here. It's not the kind of enfleshment - incarnation - that Christ came to show us. If anything, it's freedom from some lonely, bitter, regretful rewards that the same vices pay back with compounding interest.

"By contrast," Paul says "the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit."

As we approach another celebration of this country's very fragile identity, its complicated history, its costly birth to so many, and as we consider its future; what might it look like to see our collective flesh - the ego-centered, power-hungry corporate body - crucified alongside the only one who can set our hearts toward true freedom? Where malice yields to love, despair to joy, discontentment to peace. Where patience cools rage, kindness cures cruelty, and selfishness is overcome by generosity. Where faithfulness checks hopelessness, gentleness guards against callousness, and suicidal overconsumption is tempered by self-control.

Can you smell it? Smells like perfect freedom to me.

But indeed freedom isn't free. This freedom was won for us by God's own self. By checking our fear of death so that we might have life and have it abundantly. To be truly free of our egos and to walk into that vision of a new creation - where we study war no more. And perhaps it is in drawing from this kind of freedom that we will better learn how to ensure worldly freedom of the entire body. And in that perhaps we can - as a larger body, a nation - re-connect with our own national soul. Bruised and wandering, feeble and hurting as it may be. And far from free these days.

Freedom isn't free. But it is a gift. And one for the taking, through Christ our Lord.

Amen

Sermon for Trinity Sunday, Year C (6-15-25)

Sun, 15 Jun 2025 02:59:22 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31 ; Romans 5:1-5 ; John 16:12-15 ; Psalm 8

Trinity Sunday. Today we meditate on a great mystery. That the Father, Son, and Spirit are somehow one, but yet three, distinct but never separate. It's enough to make your brain leak out of your ears, especially if you try to find that perfect metaphor. And try I did, but when the best metaphor I could come up for the Trinity with was that of an egg salad sandwich, I decided to follow in the footsteps of the early church and take a few more centuries to think about it. Probably for the best.

But rather than how the Trinity works or what it's like, I discovered an ancient metaphor of how the Trinity is within itself . The nature of what it might look like to envision God in community with Godself. To be able to steal a glance at the beautiful idea that God loves Godself perfectly first, and then extends that love to us. The unstoppable motion of a triune God lilting here and there, spinning and swirling love as the engine of all creation.

The Trinity as a Divine Dance.

Do you remember a time you were asked to dance? Maybe it was in a dark, shabby school gymnasium decorated with as much teenage angst as it was decorated with crepe paper. Maybe it was at a wedding and you were dressed to the nines, and although it was a crowded dancefloor it somehow felt like you and your sweetheart were the only ones there. Swaying to the song you knew was written just for the two of you. Maybe it was at a party and the music was pounding, and you were jumping, and you took in the joy of that moment shining from the faces of loved ones dancing with you... at least in that moment you knew everything was going to be okay.

While of course there's nothing wrong with dancing alone, adding at least one partner really changes the experience into something else. It becomes something bigger than the sum its parts. Dancing doesn't make anything, or fix anything, and it doesn't even really say anything intrinsically. Dancing is connection for the sake of connection. Rather than reflect what we do or what we are as species that dances, I think it says something powerful about how we are that we dance.

And so, what does it mean that God dances, too?

Then God said, “let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness," we hear in Genesis' creation poem. Our image. In the beginning there was a we at the wellspring of creation. In the beginning there was a relationship which was contemplating how much of its own characteristic would be inked into the blueprint of all living things. And from the beginning there has been an invitation to be part of that divine we, that relationship that is being itself. A choreography of love that is perfectly complete in itself, but that also calls us to partake of that relationship simply out of pure grace and a delight that we exist at all.

You may have seen the very famous icon of the Trinity painted by 15th century artist Andrei Rublev. The three angelic figures are said to represent specific persons of the Trinity via a rich symbolism. Gold for the perfection and completion of the Father. Blue brings to mind water and air, the mixing of two elemental natures as the humanity and divinity of Christ are found in Jesus. And the green-robed Holy Spirit suggesting her life-giving power. And the symbolism goes on and on layer upon layer, down to how the figures are seated and whether their wings touch or not. But one piece of lore about this icon serves us well today.

While being cleaned and conserved a large section of paint was missing near the opening of the circle. And many have suggested that was due to some kind of adhesive being placed directly on the icon in order to attach a small mirror. So that when praying with this icon, whoever looked upon the relationship of God with God's self - the Trinity - it was impossible to not see themselves also sitting at the table. Their face within this Divine circle. An invitation to the dance even while we still pray to understand it. No need to have figured it out before contemplating what it means to really live as though we believe there is perfect, balanced, active love continually pouring out for us from this Divine place.

"What is humankind that you should be mindful of them?" our psalmist asks this morning, "the child of humankind that you should seek them out? You have made them but little lower than the angels; you adorn them with glory and honor." It seems that even before we knew what to call it, the faithful had always sensed God's invitation to be part of something bigger.

In his book, The Divine Dance, Richard Rohr reminds us: "You can go to church everyday for the rest of your life. God isn't going to love you any more than God loves you right now. You cannot make God love you any less, either - not an ounce less. Do the most terrible thing - steal and pillage, cheat and lie - and God wouldn't love you less. You cannot change the Divine mind about you. What we can do, however, is learn how to believe it, receive it, trust it, allow it, and celebrate it...accepting Trinity's whirling invitation to join in the cosmic dance."

So what will your dance with the Triune God be like? An elegant waltz, an energetic foxtrot, a slow sway resting your head safely in the nape of God's neck? Our triune God offers a hand - or maybe three hands - to join the divine dance. Don't worry about knowing the steps. Just accept the invitation to dance.

Amen.

Sermon for Pentecost, Year C (6-8-25)

Sun, 08 Jun 2025 03:14:42 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Acts 2:1-21 ; Romans 8:14-17 ; John 14:8-17 ; Psalm 104:25-35, 37

One chilly October week about a decade ago I spent a few nights on retreat out at the country property used and tended to by the monks I was living with at the time. Several small hermitages lined the Artichoke river and provided a sense of comfortable, natural solitude that I’d never before experienced. It was me, a rocking chair, a wood stove, lots of hot tea, and my thoughts and prayers.

I took a walk to get intentionally lost in the woods one afternoon. It was overcast, and drizzling, and mildly windy. The farm property set against a state park with towering pine trees and winding hiking paths. Several abandoned wells and cabins sprouted up as I meandered around aimlessly. Half an hour went by, then an hour, and so I decided to attempt find my way back. I soon realized that I was very, very lost - which was my goal - but, regardless, I was hungry and wet and wanted to be back in my cozy hermitage.

It was just then that I found myself at the crest of a bluff overlooking the peaceful river - completely still other than an occasional fan of ripples from the wind. No buzz of city life. No music. No talking. And yet, I instantly found myself straining to listen to something I couldn’t quite single out. Suddenly, a giant rush of wind drummed up all around me and I realized that I was physically - and spiritually - leaning in to listen as if there was an audible voice. It was encompassing all of me at that moment - blowing right through me. Screaming, large and powerful and comforting altogether.

The wind was speaking, and I was listening.

All of the angst and doubt and confusion that I’d been clinging to for the few weeks prior - especially about my vocation, and future, and goals - all of that was being breathed on. Like that once still river, my soul was rippling and being moved by something much larger. I was lost - not only in the woods - but in my ideal of life’s journey and direction. I was lost, and wind found me. And she had a clear message:

You won’t always see the path in front of you. Keep walking anyway and don’t ignore the scenery as you go. You will feel alone at times. Keep loving anyway and never turn your ear from the wind. You will find seasons of peace...until the wind blows. It will take you where you need to be...if you let it .

That’s what I heard. I stood there exposed, surrendered, feeling like this tiny but invaluable stroke of a much bigger painting. The Spirit found me in the wind, and in that moment I found perfect tranquility in her invisible voice. I was on holy ground. I met God on that hill.

I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, Joel prophesies
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy

and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.

I've heard this text differently ever since my realer-than-real encounter with God's Holy Spirit that day. A spirit who is - as God - always one of love. But who doesn't necessarily always whisper either. Sometimes she's happy to raise her voice a bit. And she blows where she will. Of that I'm very sure.

How about you? Have you had any run-ins with this wily, most Holy Spirit? Jesus tells us that it has been gifted to each and every one of us who seek to follow him. Where God in the flesh - Jesus - grabs our attention and entices us onto a path of real unending life, God's Holy Spirit sustains us on that path and takes the form and shape that we need (even when we don't know what we need).

If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees her nor knows her. You know her, because she abides with you, and she will be in you.

Seeing this invisible Spirit is as much looking for evidence of her wake, echoes of her work in the world about us. A moment of firm realization, a searing experience of conviction, a deep knowing of the connectedness of all of God's creation. You'll often find her in these moments - or rather - you'll more readily notice her. Because she's always here. Always brooding over us like a hen over her chicks.

"But the Advocate," Jesus says "the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid."

That is how we know of her constant companionship: peace. In the midst of pain, and strife, and heartbreak, and disappointment, and anger, and stress, and you name it - bubbling under all of that is divine peace. The indwelling of God's Holy Spirit in your very being allowing you a life you simply cannot create for yourself. Peace amid all things. Strength to face all things. Wisdom to weigh all things. And a God-sized heart to love all things. All gifts from a God who adores you and seeks to dwell within your very soul.

Like the murmur of the dove's song, like the challenge of her flight,

like the vigor of the wind's rush, like the new flame's eager might,

Come, Holy Spirit, come.

Amen

Sermon for the Seventh Sunday of Easter, Year C (6-1-25)

Sun, 01 Jun 2025 03:34:11 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Acts 16:16-34 ; Revelation 22:12-14,16-17,20-21 ; John 17:20-26 ; Psalm 97

Imagine with me you've taken into your home two strangers. They'd caused trouble in your streets. They'd rabbled and roused, if you will. They'd been arrested, jailed, and placed under your guard. Then they'd seemingly been set free by earthshaking means you cannot explain. And now, here they are in your house.

Paul and Silas are their names. Jews. An unpopular lot by your Roman estimation - or so you've been taught. But they come baring a reputation as preachers - and not just any preachers - but preachers in service of a new kind of God. Not a God who needs to be placated by burnt offerings, whose ego needs to be stroked, whose rage and wrath needs to be staved off by acts of devotion - but a God who has become one of that same God's creation. A curious idea. A God who has deigned to stoop down to human nature - to draw near to a beloved creation. And not just simply to rule tyrannically over it.

Imagine with me being so transformed by meeting these men, and by hearing their story, and by being introduced to their God that instead of carrying out your own death sentence for punishment for their own kind-of-but-not-really escape - you invite them into your home. Introduce them to your family. And decide that life can actually be different. That it can be about life even in the face of death. And that it can be bigger than what life seemingly is this day. And that it can change everything.

And now imagine with me that all of this happens. But then the jail wardens - you bosses - find out that these two inspiring men have indeed escaped. And imagine with me, that they kill you anyway. We don't know that this is the fate of our unsung hero from today's passage from Acts. But we also don't know that it's not. He was willing to fall on his own sword initially because he knew it would be the only outcome for a prison break on his watch. As an agent of the empire whose peace - the Pax Romana - was only possible with the underwriting promise of death one way or another.

But this is such a grim prospect for someone who our scriptures would lead us to believe was saved; he and his household. But saved from what?

If we're being cynical we might say something like "no good deed goes unpunished". Or if we're thinking in terms of the Good News of Jesus we might say something in line with our collect of the day: "Do not leave us comfortless [oh God], but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us, and exalt us to that place where our Savior Christ has gone before.

You see, if we rewind this whole story we see a string of right actions that - if we're being honest - lead to immediate crappy outcomes. We see no immediate gratification. What we do see is an arc of God's loving and saving power working through clunky, willful, inspired - if not recklessly hopeful - human action.

During our visit to Savannah, GA last week Charlie and I had the great privilege to be in the presence of a warm, brilliant, and quietly formidable black woman of Gullah Geechee heritage. And who is known by everyone as Sister Pat. Born and raised in the GA Lowcountry Sister Pat then spent a career as a paralegal and then wildly effective lobbyist at the American Civil Liberties Union. A self-proclaimed truth-teller, she now runs the Slavery to Freedom tour in Savannah - one of the most nuanced, sobering, and compelling experienced I've had in a very long time.

On the tour Sister Pat told us about her very first day of work at the ACLU. A young, excited lady looking to fight for the rights of all. Who then took her first appointment with none other than the local leader of the KKK. You see, the Klan had been denied a permit to protest - in all honesty - on unconstitutional grounds. And this Klansman came to the one place he knew would fight to see that right reinstated. As you could image every jaw on that bus was already agape. Because, can you imagine? First day for this descendent of enslaved West African people and this is what is presented to her. So, what did she do? Or more importantly: what was the next right thing to do?

She met with that man and decided to defend his case. Not because she liked it, or agreed with what this hate group stood for, but in her own words "because the ACLU was established to defend the civil rights of all Americans. And all means all." And now imagine how quiet that bus was while we were hanging on every single word.

So she did defend it. She went to city hall, pressed them to give the permit to lawfully protest, and protest the KKK did. And Sister Pat went to watch it (and I'd imagine to keep a very close eye out for the slightest act of lawlessness just in case). But what she shared next changed everything. I'm paraphrasing here but she said something like: "and I went to that square to looked around. And on one corner was the Klan, yes. But on the other was a women's rights group, and on the other was a church group demonstrating for equal access to education for marginalized children, and on the other corner was a demonstration bringing attention to the growing AIDS crisis. And it was only at THAT exact moment - that I truly knew, deep down - that we were gonna be alright"

So what happened here? Sister Pat did what she determined in her own estimation was the next right thing to do. Did she personally profit from this act. If she did, it was only after seeing how it was part of something bigger. Bigger than her, bigger than the Klan, bigger even than some of the broad lofty goals that she had set for herself and people like her. And mind you this was nearly 50 years ago.

But as Deacon Rob reminded us several months ago: it's always the right time to do the right thing. Today I'll add that it's always the right time to do the next right thing that you can determine, with God's help. Even if the ultimate outcome is still known to God alone.

I think Sister Pat, Paul and Silas could hang. And I'm pretty sure they will, in the fullness of time.

Amen.

Sermon for the The Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year C (5-18-25)

Sun, 18 May 2025 04:11:47 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Acts 11:1-18 ; Revelation 21:1-6 ; John 13:31-35 ; Psalm 148

I hope everyone ate their Wheaties this morning, because we're going to be focusing on our reading from Revelation. For those who have spent any time in this most fascinating - if not troubling, even terrifying - conclusion to our holy scriptures, you'll understand why thoughtful preachers tread very carefully into it from up here. And conversely, you'll know why it's a favorite to be used as a bludgeon by irresponsible preachers. After all, fear is quite an effective motivator.

But at least a handful of you are looking back at today's passage, though, and thinking "well this doesn't seem so bad. It's kind of lovely, actually." This vision of a mystical, perfect new creation. Where God is present in a concrete real way. Where there's no more suffering, no more sadness, no more pain - and most importantly - no more death. And you'd be right. It is a lovely image, and it's no small reason why we draw heavily from this passage in our funeral liturgy.

I think for no small number of people in the world today whether they be seeking a new home in the face of inescapable poverty or violence, whether they still continue to carve out space in this society to be seen at all - to exist at all. Whether they be trapped in cycles or addition, or rage, or grief, or hopelessness. For no small number of people - and for the whole of this fragile Earth itself, I'd wager - this vision of a new heaven and a new Earth is an especially lovely vision. Especially right about now.

But if you've ever taken even a brief tour though Revelation you'll know that nice visions of utopian futures are not all that's on offer. Actually, a large majority of the Revelation to John depicts a lot of horror and turmoil. And more than anything, a lot of divine judgement.

It would seem that the framers of the lectionary - our roadmap through the scriptures - may have wanted us to detour around judgement today. Because just where this passage of hope and promise ends today, the very next verses read: "Those who are victorious will inherit all this, and I will be their God and they will be my children. But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.”

Uh oh. This is a pretty broad list. Am I to understand that those lies I've flirted with over the years are going to exempt me from this new creation? Were all of those fundamentalists actually right when they told me that my love of Harry Potter would be at the risk of my own condemnation? How does all of this actually work?

Unsurprisingly, the judgement found in Revelation has taken the main stage of the Christian imagination - especially to those who insist on attempting to read all scripture literally. Which is - by the way - a very recent development in relation to our long history of Christian study and teaching. And I say attempt to read it literally because - with any level of intellectual honesty - we have to admit that you really can't read all of scripture literally and expect it to make any sense or be of any help ultimately.

But whether you take the illustrations of divine judgement literally or figuratively, we have to admit that judgement is a key factor in this book. And it accompanies the idyllic visions of a new creation in nearly lock step. Considered in a certain way, I want to offer up a little insight into why I think all of this is ultimately Good News.

Anglican theologian Fleming Rutledge in her recent tome The Crucifixion really gets to the heart of how I believe we can consider the justice of God in a faithful and honest way. She writes: “In our world, something is terribly wrong and it must be put right. If, when we see an injustice, our blood does not boil at some point, we have not yet understood the depths of God. It depends, though, on what outrages us. To be outraged on behalf of oneself or one’s own group alone is to be human, but it is not to participate in Christ. To be outraged and to take action on behalf of the voiceless and oppressed, however, is to do the work of God.”

What this view of God's sense of justice shows me, at least, is that judgement isn't as much of a punishment for bad things done or good things left undone - but that it's a litmus test for who will actually want to be part of this new creation. Because while I hope everyone here can understand why an existence where there is no more crying, or pain, or struggle, or competition, or inequality, or strife, or discontentment, or even death - while I hope all of us can see why we would want to be part of that reality, I'm sure we can all picture at least one person who - for one reason or another - might say: no thanks. Especially if this new creation has a clear and undeniable picture of who will, in fact, be God. (Hint - it won't be any of us. And that's very, very Good News)

The free will that our Creator baked into us - the very thing that both allows us to love God in a real way, but also run from God's love in a real way - is eternally stitched into the very fabric of our souls. God's not going to take it back. In fact, God became one of us in Christ Jesus to show exactly how much God wants us to be together in this new creation. In this renewed reality where heaven and earth are new and are also one.

But God has standards for this new, just, loving reality. And that, my friends, is really the best news this morning. What will not be invited into this new creation is the malice, and selfishness, and deceit, and fear, and pain that so sadly afflicts creation this day. I believe that the choice will be clear: do you want to stay here, rooted in all this death if it means you can be your own God? Or do you want to come do a new thing? Be part of a new creation? One choice will look like judgement, and the other will look like life. But make no mistake: the choice is ours to make.

So, if you're still a bit leery John's fever dream of a Revelation, I hope you'll consider taking another look. Despite some confusing and concerning parts, there's truly beautiful imagery and a clear message that God's love will win, and that we are warmly invited into the celebration.

Amen

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter, Year C (5-4-25)

Sun, 04 May 2025 04:49:43 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Acts 9:1-6 ; Revelation 5:11-14 ; John 21:1-19 ; Psalm 30

"For the actual love of God, get over yourself!"

This was the response from a spiritual mentor after I had spent no less than 20 straight minutes moaning and bewailing my wretchedness: my pride and my defensiveness among other vices. The main point being that there was no way that God could possibly use someone so flawed to take up a place in the counsels of the church. That I was too far gone, too broken, too unredeemable.

"Oh for the actual love of God, Drake, get over yourself. You're only as wretched as the rest of us. You're not that special." Some of the best - and obviously most memorable - spiritual direction I've ever received.

We have two stories this morning of men who were - really by any account - potentially irredeemable. And certainly by any normal human standard unfit for ministry in Christ's Church. Saul of Tarsus was not quite yet the Paul we're more familiar with. Saul was by every respect an enemy of the Jesus movement. Setting out to arrest - and even kill - the earliest followers of the Way of Christ. You see there were rules to maintain. Laws to upkeep in order to maintain favor with the Most High. If a little bloodshed was the price to pay for religious purity, then so be it.

But Jesus had other plans. And by that I mean Jesus quite literally sits Saul down (actually more so knocks him on his backside) and simply asks, "why are you doing this? Why are you persecuting me?" Between the vision and the voice, this seems to be enough to get Saul's attention. I suppose he just needed to experience the reality of Jesus rather than just the idea. Regardless, this does seem like a bit of a risky choice on Jesus' part - recruiting from the enemy's camp. Even Ananias, a faithful disciple of Jesus, feels the need to raise this point. "Go," Jesus says in response, "for he is an instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel; I myself will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name."

And then we have Peter. Ambitious, brave - if not a bit reckless - Peter. The Rock on whom Christ would build the church. Also the same one who at the time of Jesus' execution fled in fear. The same one who once dropped everything to follow Christ, but in the time of trial was quick to deny that he ever knew Jesus. More than once, mind you. A betrayal in any sense, and minimally someone I personally would have some trouble trusting going forward.

Jesus seems to be a bit more forgiving - but not without making a point. "Simon son of John (which I interpret as a parent using your full name when they really want to make a point). Simon son of John, do you love me?" "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you," Peter says. "Feed my lambs". Then again, "Peter do you love me?" "Yes, I love you!" "Tend my sheep. Peter, do you love me?" And now Peter's feelings are hurt. Which leads me to believe that his three-fold denial of Jesus whom he so loves had already been locked into the deeper, darker corners of his memory. "Follow me," Jesus says. It wouldn't be the first time Jesus says this to Peter, but after this exchange I would imagine it hits a bit differently.

Let's recap. We have a murderous religious zealot and a disciple who is all bark and no bite. Both of whom Jesus has determined will be central figures in his mission to bring heaven to earth. Leaders of the Rebellion against the oppression of the Empire (another Star Wars reference for you there). And so my question is: if Paul and Peter as flawed as they were, were able to walk into their God-ordained vocation in spite of their shortcomings. If they were able to so deeply trust that God's redeeming love would equip them with what they needed, and transform them into who they were created to be - my question is:

What's stopping you?

Even this early in my ministry I've heard too many people talk to me about a desire to engage or reengage a life of faith. To explore a nudge they feel toward a specific ministry of the Church only then to quickly follow up with something like, "oh but I'm not cut out for that, I've been away from the church too long." Or, "if God only knew the things I've done..."

Well first of all - God already does know, so we can let that one go. And second of all, get over yourself. Are all of us in our own special way deficient? D?o we all continually struggle to meet the mark? I think so. Or, at least I hope it's not just me. Here's the point, friends: when we decide that we are somehow especially messed up and too broken or damaged to be used by God we discount the very redemption project that God in Jesus Christ came to set out before us. There's a reason it was important that God became truly human in this whole set-up.

I think it's so we sense some credibility when God reminds us: "Yeah, I know how rotten it can be. I've been there, I've seen it. And I want you with me regardless. You are an instrument who I have chosen, follow me. We'll figure out the rest as we go."

So if you need some tough love this morning and think you are beyond God's using of you in a real way - get over yourself. And if you need a gentler reminder: God adores you. God came and died and rose again for you so that those stumbles and failures don't define you. So that you can confidentially walk into a path of meaning and wholeness and service to others. Knowing that the God of the universe loves you, and loves you unconditionally.

Amen

Sermon for Easter Sunday, Year C (4-20-25)

Sun, 20 Apr 2025 05:18:18 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Isaiah 65:17-25 ; 1 Corinthians 15:19-26 ; Luke 24:1-12 ; Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

It's perhaps one of the most haunting and profound questions in all of scripture. Why do you look for the living among the dead?

The faithful women - the ones who stood at the foot of the cross until the brutal end. Who brought the darkness of that hopeless day with them to the cold, dank tomb of their long-awaited Messiah. Their deliverer. The one who would, through love, change their world and their reality. In the dim early morning light they approach the resting place of Jesus. Darkness and despair in tow to continue their faithful care and service to him. They come to minister in love, but to minister to the dead.

"Why do you look for the living among the dead?" two dazzling and mysterious figured ask them.

Now despite the shock and confusion that I'm sure was well underway at this point, I think if I were in this position my pride and defensiveness would kick in whether I were talking to angels or any random passer-by. "Why am I looking here? Please don't patronize me. This is a tomb, isn't it? It's not a completely unreasonable place to look for the dead thank you very much."

But here comes the pivotal point in this story. And I would argue for us in these times, the pivotal point in our story. The two mysterious continue: "He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again."

And then they remembered.

They remembered that as unbelievable as it was, Jesus told them that this was how it would be. He told them that suffering would happen. That death would seem to win. But that after all that, somehow - someway - life would reemerge. And that God would do a new thing. Out of the ashes, out of the dust of the old, and the broken, and the dead. A new thing.

And then they remembered.

What if I told you that sometimes all it takes to have faith is to remember. Because you see, despair has an odd way of getting us to forget what we once knew. Or what we once believed deeply. Or what we once trusted, or even what we once experienced. This forgetting is a powerful tool of despair. In it we are lied to, and we fall into the trap of believing that our present reality is set. That it cannot be changed. It can't be salvaged. It can't be made new.

Well as long as all of that is only up to us, we'd be right to despair. Clearly when left to our own devices - when we bow down to the altar of power and wealth and individualism - we as a human race will always end up in a place of despair. Because that is the only lasting gift we get from these idols.

Luckily it's not all up to us. God also has something to do with all this. And this morning we are invited to remember what that looks like. Where it began. And the promise that Jesus gifts to us. The proof that a new thing will come about. That life can come from death. And that our salvation is a gift won by God's own self for us.

The only question left is: will we accept it? Will we remember?

The day Jesus died, the world ended for those who put their trust in him. Or at bare minimum, the vision they had for what the world would become collapsed. Their vision for a just, loving society was dashed. The hope for long-awaited justice and freedom was gutted. Sound familiar?

And so imagine the emotional and spiritual whiplash the women experienced when they believed that Jesus was alive . It didn't mean they would understand exactly how the kingdom of God would continue to unfold - especially amid continued violence, and oppression, and death-dealing politics. And as we know if we read on through scripture and through the histories of the early church, it most definitely didn't mean that there would be no more pain or suffering. No more fight to mount. No more work to be done. I didn't not mean that.

What it did mean - and what I think the women at the empty tomb somehow understood in that moment - is that the game had changed dramatically. Because the ultimate enemy, the one thing that could end all things - death - somehow had been defeated. And its power was now checked. And the Good News - the best news - is that death still is defeated.

Jesus is alive, my friends. And that means God will win, because ultimately God already has. Don't let despair cloud your memory of that wonderful truth. Don't look for the living among the dead. Choose to live into life - into the new thing that God is doing.

Like these faithful women it's our Easter duty to share this news. When it feels that our back is against the ropes, it's up to us to remember the larger truth of this morning. That love wins. That stubborn hope prevails. And that we have been gifted a new way - a new life - through the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

He is Risen.

Amen

Sermon for Palm Sunday, Year C (4-13-25)

Sun, 13 Apr 2025 05:56:13 GMT

The Rev Drake Douglas

Watch the sermon here

Readings : Luke 19:28-40 ; Isaiah 50:4-9a ; Philippians 2:5-11 ; Psalm 31:9-16

It's said by some that politics don't belong in the pulpit. That somehow there should be a barrier between our political lives and our religious lives. An assumption that God wouldn't dare be implicated in the broken, messiness of our human political area. Or at very minimum, that bringing politics into church isn't worth the risk of division that it will likely usher in.

And this is a convenient idea. It sands down and smooths out a sharp edge of Christian conviction. A conviction that reminds us that we will be held accountable for the decisions we make in this life - as well as the ones we opt out of making. It's a convenient idea that somehow God looks the other way when we step into a voting box. Or contribute our time or money a certain way, or toward a certain cause. It's a convenient idea to hold. One that sees Jesus as too wise and high- minded to dirty his divine sensibilities with the corruption of our human-crafted political landscape.

It's a convenient idea.

It's also patently untrue.

It was Roman custom both before and after the time of Jesus to kick up quite a scene when important men entered the walled city of Jerusalem. Think of it as a kind of homecoming parade for kings, victorious military generals, and emperors. People, both subjects and social elites alike would wave cloths and branches, and shout out acclimations of praise for these important people, saddled up on fine important horses, wearing even finer important garb. A spectacle for sure, and more than anything a reminder to everyone gathered of who was really in control.

So given that context, it's easy then to imagine the shock, the irritation, and the threat these same important people must have experienced when they watched a humble teache from a backwater town greeted in a similar triumphal way.

And you will have to work a little harder to imagine that this morning, because Luke's account of this event is the only of the gospels to include neither palm branches nor Hosannas. But either way, it's easy to imagine the quick desire of those for those in power - those for whom the Roman imperial system worked quite well - to suppress the hope and passion of the people crying out, "Hosanna, Hosanna!" Which we must remember can also mean: "Save us, save us!"

You see, these people had either seen or heard of Jesus. Specifically, they'd seen or heard of the power he had. But not power to rule the way that these other important men so often did. But power to heal and to cast out demons. The power to bring people back to life. And if he could do all that, perhaps this is also the man - the long awaited Messiah, the prophesied Son of David - that would finally set them free. Hosanna, Hosanna. Save us! Save us!

Being so far removed today from both the time and culture of Jesus, it's tempting to see this story simply as an allegory of our salvation story. About souls and not real politicized bodies and real oppressed people. To hear the shouts of Hosanna as an acclimation of Jesus' divinity and his cosmic status, and not as what it really was. Which was a cry for help. And an acclimation of a Messiah - a deliverer - who would first and foremost save his people from imperial rule. From their present and oppressive political reality.

Jesus' triumphal entry to Jerusalem was a glaringly political statement . And there's no getting around that. No matter how inconvenient that may be to some of our present religious sensibilities. So, to say politics doesn't belong in pulpit is to attempt to wrestle the truth from Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jerusalem. The God-man Jesus used human politics as a site to show forth his glory through his suffering and sacrifice. And because of that fact alone, non-political Christianity simply does not exist. If politics is how we've attempted to order our common life together - God will show up there, too. Because God's not letting us go.

Doubtless, there's at least one person here thinking something along the lines of, "Common, Drake. It's Holy Week, I came here to sing and wave my palm branch around. I came to hear the stories and to get ready for Easter! Not to get tossed around in the messiness of politics. I've had enough of this political mess that we're in!"

And to that I say: I hear you. I really do. The real and present threat that the current presidential administration poses both to the very fabric of our democracy - not to mention the numerous policies and practices employed that all but spit in the face of our baptismal vows - it's overwhelming to most of us. It's heart-breaking. It's maddening. And it's exhausting. Surely, we can just take a little break on Sunday mornings to hear some bible stories that make us feel better. To give us hope. To heal our hearts.

But the wildly important thing about these stories is this: they aren't just stories. They're real. And the contexts in which we hear them is real too. To turn our attention away from those inconvenient truths is to risk missing something critical in how we understand Jesus' journey from his scandalous and Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem all the way to the Cross.

The movement has begun. Religious, spiritual, political even. And there is no stopping what God has started. "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out" Jesus says.

On the other hand, if the marriage of your faith and your politics is perfectly happy. Or if you think of political activity as the only way that God still works in our world - please be careful. And check in with God about that. Jesus used a political act - several actually - to bring people's attention to God's work. And Jesus death on the Cross did not sanctify politics writ large. Jesus was glorified at Calvary - nothing and no one else. God is the creator, the redeemer, and the sustainer of our world and of the universe. Not just a cosmic politician. Likewise, we are not just political beings. We are beloved children of that same God, who happen to live out our lives in a political reality.

Earlier while we prayed over these palms declaring Jesus as our King, we acclaimed him with Hosannas. And in that we are still begging him to save us. And this time around - for me at least - I really mean it. But the reality remains, dear friends, that in swift succession the shouts of Hosanna will become shouts to crucify him. And in that we are shown that God has decided to enter - and remain - in the messiness of our human existence. Politics and all.

So, my prayer for you this Holy Week is that in accepting the complexity of this story you are gifted open hearts to accept the transforming salvation that Jesus: the very Son of our very God, the political rebel rouser, our true advocate and guide. And to accept the salvation that Christ has won for us.

Amen

Sermon for Third Sunday in Lent, Year C (3-23-25)

Sun, 23 Mar 2025 02:30:47 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Exodus 3:1-15 ; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13 ; Luke 13:1-9 ; Psalm 63:1-8

Watch the sermon here

Well folks, we're going full Lent this morning. These readings are tough, and they force us to stare down perhaps one of the most confusing and irritating - if not heart breaking - aspects of our human existence: That bad things happen to good people. That good things happen to bad people. And most confounding, that more often than not suffering just simply seems to be random.

To add to the confusion, it also seems like Jesus and Paul are contradicting each other as they both attempt to speak to the age-old belief that suffering is a direct reply to sin and disobedience to God.

Paul (in his classic Paul way) attempts to give the church in Corinth a pastoral pep-talk this morning. He's trying to remind these people that - even though they are experiencing conflict and strife within their very young Christian community - they will be brought through these tests by God's faithfulness just as God brought the Israelites through the wilderness. Which is all well and good. But, because he can't help himself he adds: "Nevertheless, God was not pleased with most of them, and they were struck down in the wilderness."

And then Paul goes on to recite a rap sheet of sins committed by the Israelites, and the swift punishments that were carried out because of them. And then tacks on perhaps the least helpful pastoral sentiment: "No testing has overtaken you that is not common to everyone." Or basically saying: everyone has it bad, don't get too worked up about it.

For this and several other reasons, we don't typically look to Paul for tips on effective pastoral care. Regardless, Paul's reading of Exodus seems to be a literal one. Making a clean - if not harsh - link between sin and decisive punishment by a God interested in a clear cause- and-effect relationship: you sin and fail to repent, you die. Message received.

There are several instances in Paul's writings that make me wonder if he would have shifted his opinion, or at least taken a different approach if he'd had access to the same Bible that we do. Because remember, he didn't. This letter to the Corinthians was probably written about the same time that the oldest gospels were being compiled. So, Paul wouldn't have had to contend with the very different take on sin and suffering that Jesus gives us in Luke today.

A few folks approach Jesus with a bit of a case study. They are hearing what he's teaching and now it's time to apply it to real-world events. Terrible, callous violence has been carried out against a group of Galileans by Herod, and so in these peoples' estimation - and very much in line with Paul's thinking - they ask Jesus to confirm that these Galileans were worse sinners than any run-of-the-mill Galilean. Because surely that's what makes such a tragedy - well - make more sense. Because this whole human project would make more sense if bad things only happened to the bad people, right?

Jesus has a simple answer to this question: No. But then he adds, "but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did." Okay Jesus, but which is it? Were these people punished for sin, or is that now how all of this works? And to put a finer point on it Jesus then offers his own example of a tragic tower collapse which claimed 18 lives: "Do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?" he asks. "No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did." Again, which is it?

Per usual Jesus is bypassing the wrong question here and answering the more important, but unasked question. Seemingly: who are the bad people? And how do I ensure I'm not one of them ?

One commentator sums it up well, writing: "We must resist the temptation to let tragedy reinforce our imagined distinctions between the good and 'the rest,' with ourselves presumably among the first group; all of us must constantly be seeking to live as God intends, in loving and just ways. And the need of others is always an opportunity for loving service."

God is not doling out tragedy as an immediate, calculated punishment of sin. But we are warned time and time again that when we flirt with sin, we are flirting with a death-dealing business. Sin - mysterious as it is - is also quite simple. It is that which drives distance and disunion between our life-giving God, each other, and even ourselves. And in that void created by sinful distance, death abounds. Spiritually, mentally, relationally - and yes - sometimes even bodily.

This, I think, is what Jesus is saying today. No, God is not doling out pain and suffering as a tit-for-tat disciplinary scheme. And yet, Jesus is also not willing to say that sin no big deal. After all, if it took the death of God to deal with sin once and for all. So we'd be wise to take it and its rotten fruits seriously.

But there is still Good News here, my friends. This call of Jesus to repentance is as much an invitation to come home as it is a command to feel bad about ourselves or what we've done (or left undone.) Repentance is more than anything a turning around; pointing our gaze back toward God when we've been distracted, or disillusioned, or even damaged by our own sin and perhaps even the sins of others.

Like the gardener looking out for an underperforming fig tree, God will tend to you even in your baren times. In fact, that's likely when you might most sense grace being heaped upon you, fortifying your spirit against the snares of the enemy. Fertilizing your soul for growth and for abundant life.

Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, Year C (3-16-25)

Sun, 16 Mar 2025 21:57:11 GMT

The Rev. Drake Douglas

Readings : Genesis 15:1-12,17-18 ; Philippians 3:17-4:1 ; Luke 13:31-35 ; Psalm 27

Watch the sermon here

Now everyone be honest: how many of you actually read every line of those sprawling Terms of Service when you sign up for basically anything on the internet? You know, the pages and pages of fine print you have to accept before enjoying that free online account, or subscription? They are overwhelmingly long and equally dry and full of legalese. And as much as I know there's a risk of signing away something I probably shouldn't, I simply can't bring myself to read the fine print. It's boring and weird. So, most often I just click, scroll, and then click again and get on with my day.

But sometimes we do miss really important things when we fail to consider the fine print. Today's story in Genesis is a great reminder of that.

What a strange fever dream of a story, huh? We have a bit of Abram (not yet Abraham) kind of pressing God on a promise of an heir that was now about 25 years in the making. A quarter of a century of Abram doing what God's asked him to do, going where God's asked him to go. And still: no legitimate offspring. Abram is understandably starting to question God's promise.

So after a little back and forth with GOD - as Abram is often one to do - God asks that Abram procure a heifer, a female goat, a ram, a turtle-dove, and a young pigeon. And Abram does so and - seemingly without more instruction - cuts all the animals in two (except for the birds because, you know, a bit too small for the intended effect I guess). And then Abram lays them out in a kind of gory and probably smelly runway lined with slaughtered animals.

What in the world is going on here? Allow me to take us through the fine print here for second.

What we see happening here is called suzerain/vassal covenant . Suzerain meaning ruler and a vassal being a less powerful leader who depends on the suzerain for goods, protection, land, etc. These forms of covenant-making were common in the ancient near-east. They were costly in that they required both expensive animals and that the consequences for breaking the covenant would result in the offending party ending up in the similar state to the animals that lay before them. Bloody and very much dead.

Both parties would agree on the terms of their covenant and then repeat those terms as they walked together between the animal remains. And they would add something to the effect of "and may my end be like these animals should I break this covenant." So, very important fine print here.

Back to our story: God seems willing to engage in such a ritual in order to assuage Abram's concerns surrounding this long-standing - but yet delivered - promise of an heir. And Abram also seems to understand what God is doing, because after assembling the animals Abram waits for God to show up. Because this covenant is only valid and binding if both parties walk together along the path.

This wouldn't be the first, nor the last time, God would interact with Abram in a physical form, so it doesn't seem odd to me that Abram would wait for God to show up. But he waits for God for so long that he has to shoo the vultures away from this enticing buffet he's laid out. And as the sun goes down, Abram falls into a deep and terrifying sleep. And then we read:

When the sun had gone down and it was dark, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces. On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying, “To your descendants I give this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates.”

The fine print of note here is: a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces. Easy to miss and seemingly just a little bit of a random detail. But what if I told you that that fine print encapsulates nearly the entire foundation of our salvation story?

You see, a covenant was made that night. And God did show up. Seemingly in the floating smoke pot and torch as a nod to the pillar of cloud by day and fire by night that would one day lead a wandering people through the desert. God does show up in a mysterious way to double down on God's promise. God walks the covenant path, and God walks that path alone. And in doing so, essentially saying: I will deliver on my promise whether you keep your end of the bargain or not. And if blood will be spilled to fulfill this covenant it will be mine. I will pay the price.

Every time I read this story I get goosebumps. And I hope it's beginning to become clearer to you why it's not a bad pick as we work our way through the preparatory season of Lent. This fine print contains so much of the ultimate promise that God begins in Abram. One that God does deliver on in the gifting of Jacob to Abraham and Sarah. And from Jacob the birth of a people, Israel. And ultimately, the promise fulfilled in the birth, death, and resurrection of God from that same people: Jesus the Christ, the New Covenant. The one who walks a different bloody path, only this time toward a cross.

It's all here in the fine print, friends. Perhaps not a bad thing to spend some time in, especially when we find ourselves doing a bit of waiting on God to show up. To remember the promises God has made, to Abraham and his children forever. And to be reminded that the promise has, indeed, been fulfilled.

Amen.